


The Hazards of Love

by articulatez



Category: Repo! The Genetic Opera (2008)
Genre: Abuse, Attempted Murder, Body Horror, Depression, Disability, Disfigurement, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Imprisonment, Loss of Virginity, Mental Instability, Murder, Nathan is a bad dad, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Semi-Public Sex, Sublimation of Incestuous Feelings, Suicide Attempt, Surgery, Torture, Underage Sex, Unrealistic Portrayal of Mental Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 16:18:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16601345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/articulatez/pseuds/articulatez
Summary: Nathan survives the opera. The bullet wasn't fatal, as they often aren't, and now Shilo has to care for a broken monster. Explores issues of vulnerability, trust, and hatred within the obligations of our lives. Dark. Written at the very end of 2011.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Written from December 2011 to January 2012, based on The Decemberists album of the same name. Incestuous feelings referenced, no sexual acts occur between Nathan and Shilo. This is a dark story.

All he knew was pain. The figure in white, a halo of her love lighting the dark, was beside him. He wanted to follow her as she asked; the rattling pain kept him shackled to the ground, and her presence faded, leaving him alone in a void. He lay there an endless time, fading in and out of consciousness. She'd been calling him on, into the light, into a forgiveness and love that made him want, more than anything, to join her. He wanted to take her hand and follow her, if only she would come back to him...

A shadow stooped over him. He groaned.

"Well, what've we got here? Looks like this one's still alive!" an older voice, ringing with a Southern twang, crowed. His eyes opened just a crack. A little old woman in black with bright red hair shone a flashlight in his eyes, a spotlight in an all but empty theater. He wished her away and longed for the acceptance of darkness, since he'd even failed at dying properly. She straightened and nudged him with her shoe. "Branko, get over here. Get his arms." Sound faded into her voice, a blur, an object carrying him, he didn't know where.

* * *

Not yet a woman, no longer a child, and with the foundation of her life in ruins about her, Shilo avoided an inevitable panic attack with some extremely unpleasant chores. Dad had left a slew of savagely rended bodies in one of the tunnels that laced and warped the exterior of their house. If she'd known they were here, she wouldn't have been in such a hurry to clean up after the Opera. Shilo couldn't leave them here. The place was already starting to smell. With him dead and... and, most likely, on top of a heap of gutted corpses, it was up to Shilo to dispose of the human waste. She was grateful for her mask, for once. Huffing and puffing like the wolf in one of her picture books, her hands in dead guy armpits, she dragged the cops one by one through the tunnel, into the living room, and out the front door, where the garbage collectors would see the heap and take them away. Frightened at the thought of them ringing the doorbell, she locked the front door and wondered why she hadn't done so before.

The obvious answer: she'd never had to. Tonight was the first time she'd used the front door to leave the house.

Now, how did people clean? She faced the prospect of renewing the condition of the hardwood floor, streaked with blood. Not to mention the rug. It was stained, and she didn't know the first thing about fixing that careless mistake. In the bathroom, she filled a sick bucket with bathwater and pumped shampoo into it until it frothed and bubbled like a potion. She used a towel, dipping it into the soap and pushing it over the mess until the cloth turned dark. It worked, mostly. The rug got wet, but the soap didn't take away the dark blotches in the pattern.

So her dad an actual evil lab in their sort-of-basement. It was clean and cold and had given her the creeps each time she'd had to go back through the tunnels to fetch another victim. Absently, she wiped her hands on her nightgown and could have smacked herself for staining it red. There was blood on her, and she'd spent an hour scrubbing blood off herself earlier.

The phone rang. She screamed and stumbled backwards, knocking the bucket over. Thankfully, only suds were left. She crushed those into the wood and admired the shine. It was an ungodly hour, almost four in the morning. She didn't recognize the caller.

* * *

That was the door. That was the front door. Branko knocked, and even with the headrest, Nathan struggled to hold his head up. It turned and opened, and the angel stood there, the halo of her love shining behind her. Her head was covered in a dark veil, and he wondered why Marni was in black. Was she mourning him?

"Daddy?" she said.

Oh, God. It was Shilo. Branko wheeled him in, and DJ Granny took the girl aside to speak to her, as if he couldn't hear. There was no halo, only the light in the house. She'd turned on all the lights. She seemed so small and frail, a dark ghost, and when he looked down at his hands, he saw that they were bloodless. Shilo hugged herself and nodded abstractly at nothing the old woman was saying. He tried to stand up, to go and comfort her, but his body wouldn't obey. He couldn't move.

"I thought he belonged with his family. If the Largos knew he was alive, they'd kill him for sure," DJ was saying.

"Thank you for calling me." Her eyes had lost all expression. "Is he okay?"

"He lost a massive quantity of blood. We had a friend look him over, and she said he'd be just fine. We'll release him into your care."

"Why? Why do I have to take care of him?" she fairly pleaded.

"Darlin', he can't walk. Why d'you think he's in a wheelchair? Think that was easy to get into the car?" She touched Shilo's shoulder, and the girl shrank back at the gesture, well-intentioned though it had been. "He needs you now."

She shook her head. "I can't," she whispered.

"He's your daddy. You only get one in this lifetime."

"I don't even know how to take care of myself. And he... Find someone else. Anyone. Please, I can't."

"If he leaves this house, he will die. He knows too many of their secrets, and he can't earn his keep anymore. Shilo, that's your name, right?" she said kindly. Shilo nodded. "You're his daughter. He could have died and nearly did. Don't you see this is a second chance, for both of you? He loves you."

Shilo turned her head, and he turned away. There was reluctance there. She didn't want him. Why should she? He was a monster.

"Okay. Is there something I need to sign, or is this it?"

"He's unofficially alive, dear. That's it. No papers." She turned to her stalwart, mustachioed companion. "Let's go, Branko." The door opened, quietly closed.

Father and daughter left alone. Where could they go from here? When they'd said their last goodbyes, how could they go on? Why should they? Shilo was an angel, taking him in. He didn't deserve a second chance. She leaned against the wall, watching to see if he would rise up and subdue her for daring to stand there. Shilo was wary and afraid. Of him. And she had reason. Ashamed, he did not try to talk, did not try to look at her.

It was Shilo who spoke first. "I'll put you in the den. Can you, um, move your hands?"

He lifted his left hand and gave a half-hearted wave. She walked slowly behind him and gripped the handles of his wheelchair, wheeled him into another room on the first floor. She disappeared and came back after a long time with water. "I didn't know where the cups were," she said apologetically, hastily setting it down in arm's reach. "I don't know where anything is."

Shilo. Impetuous, naive, and now she thought to make him feel guiltier than he already did. He became sullen the more she tried to make him comfortable. A pillow fluffed and placed behind his head, a blanket from her bed over his lap. Slight movements caused him pain. Her gestures caused him pain. He wanted to ask for Zydrate pills from his medicine cabinet, but he didn't want to talk to her. His silence was having a powerful effect on her. He was a burden, a trespasser in his own home, and it showed in her awkward, rigid movements. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to hold her. Bitter resentment and shame held his tongue and that gunshot held his legs.

She wanted him to acknowledge her. All he wanted was Marni and the rest he'd earned.

Finally, Shilo turned off the lights. "Goodnight, Daddy." She left him in the dark.

 


	2. The Prettiest Whistle

The veil, to hide her baldness from strangers, was replaced on the white mannequin head. The seventeen year old paced her room, a fistful of dread punching at her intestines. Anxiety, horrible anxiety, was threatening to peel the ground from underfoot. She'd taken all she could at the opera. She'd seen the aftermath of Mag's demise. She'd held her father in her arms, unable to accept him for all that he was, and let him go. Part of her- more than a small part- had been relieved, that he'd kicked the bucket.

Why couldn't he be dead?

She immediately felt terrible for thinking that. This was a second chance. If she loved her dad as much as she'd said, for the whole world, then she should be happy to do this. It should have been easy to put the past behind her and help her dad recover. Except… the way he'd looked at her. There was no love there, not like there had been before. It was like Rotti's associates had brought a stranger into her house. He was a shell who resembled her dad, but he'd killed. He'd killed again and again, and killed her mother, and when her throat tightened and her breaths began to constrict in anxiety, that could have been his medicine, fucking her up from her veins. It's this blood condition? No, it fucking wasn't. It was all him, and it had always been him.

If he'd just had the decency to die, she could go out into the world and… and get therapy, or something. Shilo lay on the bed and curled in on herself, her hands on the back of her neck, holding her head down. Whatever happened to freedom? The world was hers. She'd earned it. Instead, he needed her. She didn't want it, and that made her a horrible daughter. It made sense. He'd been a horrible father.

A noise traveled in the air. A whistle: low and melodic, and familiar. In her angst, she'd almost forgotten there were other people in the world aside from her dad and herself. Dashing to the window, she leaned far over the balcony to see a man strolling by the gate. She'd know him anywhere; he was kind of hard to miss. He'd had a profitable night; blue lights in glass vials hung from his belt.

Seeing him brought back the Opera in grisly detail. The needle breaking through dead tissue, the light flashing, showing Mom's eternally smiling face. Shilo held the iron and sank down into a crouch, watching Graverobber pass by, whistling. He didn't have a care in the world. He could go anywhere, do anything, do anyone. Shilo despised him for his freedoms. Without the monster downstairs, without the man she wanted to love downstairs, she could be that liberated. She could wear stripes in her non-existent hair and sell drugs, if she really wanted to.

His tune carried in the night for heartbeats after she couldn't see him or his lights any longer. The haunting sound sobered her and she went to sleep out on the balcony.

* * *

Obviously, taking care of a grown man wasn't going to be easy. Nathan being sullen and uncooperative didn't help matters. Shilo struggled to fix breakfast alone, finally settling for cereal with milk, served in tupperware because the proper bowls were too high to reach. The kitchen seemed too big. Too many appliances shot out fire or were icy on the inside. In her bloody nightgown, Shilo padded out to where she'd left her father and held out the sort-of bowl. She didn't stand too close, irrationally afraid that he would strike her.

Her dad didn't move. He was awake, staring straight ahead. After her arm began to ache, she knelt and put the container on his lap, folding her arms.

"Dad, eat."

He sighed.

"Daddy, please?"

Shilo felt herself getting frustrated almost right away and took the container, getting to her feet. She filled the spoon.

"Eat," she said. "I got it myself."

He looked at her, and it broke her a little how sad he was. He opened his mouth, and she fed him that one bite.

"Okay, I'm your daughter and this is weird. I know your hands work." Shilo took his hand and painstakingly straightened each finger, then folded his hand awkwardly around the spoon. "If you won't cooperate, I won't eat anything either. I'll go hungry because of you."

Again, she held out the cereal. He took it this time.

"Why won't you talk to me?" she asked. "Is it something I did?" He acted as if she'd said nothing. Her shoulders slumped. "What did I do wrong?"

With only the silence between them, no words, no understanding, she stiffened and headed in the other direction, to get away from him. Just before she left, he spoke. It wasn't much. It wasn't loud. It barely counted.

"No. You did nothing, honey."

Shilo blinked back tears. Continuing the conversation only invited more awkwardness or, worse, honesty. She couldn't take it, so she left, and hid in her room. The next few meals were passed in silence; if he didn't take what she made, she'd sit on the couch, arms crossed, refusing to eat until he did. He always caved because, as always, his daughter came first, before pretty much everything else. They didn't speak. She wanted to. After three days, she wondered how the house had become even more silent. She didn't talk at all, not even to herself.

At night, she'd sit on the balcony and watch for people. Watch for a certain man with blue lights and stripes in his hair, whistling a merry tune, to stroll by. There wasn't a reason for her to want to see him. He scared her, and he'd done unspeakable things. He was not a decent human being. But he was colorful, and when anxiety and anger made it impossible to sleep, she wanted his music to interrupt the tragic night and lull her heartbeat into complacency, quickening her terror, getting it all over with at once so she could sleep.

After three tense days alone with her dad, she noticed that his hair was just a bit greasy, and there were dark circles under his arms. He smelled. After lunch, she wheeled him into the bathroom and handed him a washcloth.

"I'm going to wait outside. You can do this yourself," she said, jaw clenched. "Okay?"

"Shilo, let it go. It doesn't matter," he said quietly. He placed the washcloth on the sink.

"It does matter!" she exclaimed.

He fixed her with bloodshot eyes. He hadn't been sleeping, she guessed. At least it wasn't just her. This situation was killing both of them, and she didn't know if it was from the silence or the broken illusions or just plain awkwardness. "Why?"

"Because I have to live with you!"

Without another word, she rushed them both into his lab, put his brakes on over the drain, and took the hose off the wall. She gripped the nozzle tight, anticipating grown-up sized pressure, and hosed him down, and she knew it was humiliating for him, and cruel of her, but he was so frustrating and she didn't know what else to do. At least he struggled. At least he raised his hands and protested.

Finally, he yelled, in a voice she remembered very well, a voice that preceded pain, and with a terrified gasp she dropped the hose and stepped back, saying that she was so sorry.

"What has gotten into you?" he barked, removing his glasses and attempting to dry them. Having a dripping shirt, he didn't have much luck wiping them off.

Shilo brought her arms close to her sides. "You're mad at _me_? Dad, you've barely talked to me all week. How do you think that makes me feel?"

He replaced his glasses on his nose and looked at her. "Shilo…"

"You're all I have, Daddy," she said and her voice cracked on the last syllable. She went to him, even though he frightened her, even though a small part of her thought he was capable of beating the life out of her weakened body, and put her arms around him. "It's okay that you need me, but please don't shut me out. I can't take it."

She felt his arms, so strong, encircle her body. "I see you're not wearing your wig." His hand went up her neck to the base of her skull. "Why?"

There was something of a demand in that. He wanted her to wear the wig. He hated to see her bald. It was the one expectation she didn't mind; after so many years, she didn't know her own reflection without the long, black hair. "I don't know how to clean it. It's all… bloody. It smells." The blood: a mix of Mag's and Daddy's life, carpeting the ground.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Soak it in water." He held her shoulders and smiled at her, so warmly it made her eyes water. "This hasn't been fair to you."

"Well, life's not fair, right?" she said.

"No." He was thoughtful. She took his glasses, wiped them on the hem of her shirt, and gave them back. "Your mother would be so proud of you."

She didn't say it, but she thought it: _Dad, aren't you proud of me?_

* * *

Late that night, with her blood-matted wig soaking in the tub, Shilo took a blanket out to the balcony. The stars were luminous, and she noted Venus, and she noted the waning moon. The cars raged through the streets noisily, and she watched the traffic, bored even though she wasn't part of it. The foot traffic by her house was sparse, even with the threat of Repo Man gone for the time being.

Then, he came. Whistling a different song, in no particular hurry, he ambled past her window. She wondered where he was going and almost yelled at him, for disturbing her insomnia. She liked the feeling of being the only person awake, and he ruined that. She sighed and leaned over the railing, holding the blanket over her head like a hood. The wind blew softly, rustling her blood-stained nightgown. He whistled beautifully.

 


	3. Trouble the Water

They were out of food. One day, Shilo opened up the cupboards and found them bare. That meant she'd be going outside for something other than the newspaper- and even that had been a novelty. Dressing in layers to guard against the nipping cold, in fishnet sleeves and a shirt with a ruffled collar, a pleated skirt with a petticoat flounced beneath, and her boots zipped up to the knee.

"You'll be okay here for a few hours?" she uncertainly asked her father.

He'd been more helpful lately. She brought him a change of clothes in the morning and at night, giving him privacy, and he helped her, following her around the first floor as she tried to find basic things: blankets (linen closet), pot for the stove (drawer by the refrigerator), vacuum cleaner (closet under the stairs). She still wasn't entirely comfortable with the layout of the house, but at least she felt a little more competent as a human being. Not so helpless anymore.

"Of course, honey. Come here." He opened his arms. A reluctant pause later, she fluttered into his arms. "I'll be fine. Don't fret about me." He touched her wig. They both pretended it was real.

"Dad, don't be weird. I'm just going out for groceries," she said, pulling back. "I won't be gone long." She retrieved her satchel and the house keys.

"Shilo?"

"Yes?"

"I love you," he said throatily.

"Bye, Dad."

Door open, door shut, and she went out the gate, into the dim, chill evening. A car blazed past, kicking up leaves and frightening her several paces backwards. It was just a car, nothing to freak out over. She used a gadget affixed to her phone to guide her to a grocery store. She wandered up and down the aisles with a red basket slung over one arm, wondering how her dad had managed to transform these tins and cans and dehydrated bags of foodstuffs into hot, delicious meals. The man worked miracles. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason in where food was in the tall aisles. She felt lost, and people with carts almost hit her in their haste; they seemed annoyed that she took so long, gazing carefully along each artificial walkway to survey every type of food. There were things she'd never seen, never tried.

An unbidden image flashed in her mind as she looked at crimson pasta sauce: Mag, impaled and eyeless, her porcelain beauty striped bloody, her blood coating and melting the fake snow. She cringed and put the jar back on the shelf. She paid for the basketful of products, stowed them in her satchel, and left, blushing at people's open stares. She'd not counted on being recognized. Best to get home before, God forbid, someone tried to talk to her. What did they call it on TV? Getting a comment? Yuck! No, thank you.

Turning the corner, she saw a figure on the other side of the street, hastening between two buildings. She let her curiosity guide her—and besides, she didn't want to go home right away, where she'd have to deal with her father all the sooner. She waited for the cars to pass by, and then hurried across the street. She ran a little ways into the alley, quickly darting behind a trashcan to hide. An overturned soapbox provided the perfect seat for her to watch the little play unfold, with all its colorful and staggering players.

They poured in like sand through a sieve, from the side of one building, from the back. On shoes like stilts, laced into clothes made of leather and lycra, and fishnets of all colors, the rainbow of slack-jawed, hollow-eyed junkies approached him. And he was the conductor of their orchestra, his hands held high, captivating them with what he proffered: the cure, the cure! In what had become dark, no matter how valiantly the streetlights and neon signs tried to banish the night, the vial gleamed electrically. The man was tall, and sure-footed, and his uniform was a mix of rags and riches. His coat had seen better days, and his shirt was frayed, boots scuffed and grey with grave dust, but he had gold in his pockets. Gold in the form of a monocle, gold in the form of the credits his junkies shoved into his eager palm. This, he pocketed; the gun then flew up, and he loaded it with the blue bullet.

Horrified and fascinated, Shilo couldn't tear herself away. It was sickening. That came from the dead. It came from _brains_. Still, there came that thrum, a spark from the gun as he deployed the drug to its destination, and without fail someone fell back, twitching, and their mouths were warped with joy. He didn't share an ounce of their emotion. When she caught glimpses of his face, he looked confident, but bored. He looked dangerous. She shivered in the night air, and there were three junkies still awake. She knew she should leave before he discovered her.

There wasn't anything good waiting for her outside of the alley.

He refilled the gun, and the last person awake, a woman with love handles affectionately revealed with her cut-off shirt, grabbed his- his crotch. Shilo blushed.

"Let me help you help me," she slurred.

He smiled at her, amused, patronizing, unaffected. "No. Not with an audience." Pouting, the woman thought he referred to the sleeping people cast on the ground around them. Shilo's drew in a sharp, frightened gasp as his eyes flickered past all that, to lock on to hers. He smirked and gestured behind the woman's back for Shilo to duck down, which she did. Her monitor went off. Medicate immediately, medicate immediately. She silently cursed it and hoped the junkie wouldn't hear, and when her vision started to go blurry around the edges, she desperately, desperately tried to calm her breaths. It only made it worse.

She fought through it, angry that she was being inconvenienced by the poison, and for no good reason. It was _foolish_. She heard a strangled cry and, hoping she wouldn't regret it, turned around, looking over at the woman now thrashing on the ground. Graverobber blew on the end of the gun like a cowboy in an old western after a fight.

"You can't account for manners these days," he said. He coaxed her, "Come on out, little girl."

Shakily, she stood, and came close, hands behind her back. "I'm sorry."

"You didn't think I would have you watch? With _her_? Zydrate makes her think she's up to my standards, and..." He chuckled darkly. "She is not. None of them are."

"Do you, um, remember me? From the Opera?"

"Naturally. You think I acquired amnesia since then? To think, that I could forget such a pretty face!" He held out a hand. When she touched her fingers to it, he lifted her hand and bent his head to press a kiss to her long fingers. He didn't release her hand. She stood a safe distance away, and still her heart screamed danger. "Have you been following me?"

"No," she lied, breathless as she looked up into his shadowed eyes. He was a ghost. He was a frightening ghost with mischief in his smile.

"Kid, you have." His hand slid down her hand to her wrist. "I won't mock you."

"You're the one who's been walking by my window."

"Then you noticed," he said, nodding, satisfied. He let go her hand and she rubbed the wrist even though he hadn't hurt it. He was powerful enough to hurt her, if he wanted to, but all the times he'd ever touched her, he'd been gentle. He might have yanked her around to get her out of danger, but all in all... it was like her dad. Too close, too gentle. She wanted to stop being treated that way, by anyone. It made her feel like she might break into pieces. True affection wasn't careful and paranoid of doing damage.

"You're hard to miss."

"Yeah? Same to you, kid." He leaned on the wall and looked her over. It made her feel proud and pretty, how his mouth twitched on one side and his posture became even _more_ dramatic. If he'd known she was watching the whole time, during the meeting of the Zydrate addicts, every flourish and twist and grin had been for her. How many girls on those TV shows could say the same? "Where have you been hiding, little girl?"

"Home."

"After all you went through to free yourself?" he said, shaking his head in mock disapproval. He tutted.

"I'm taking care of my father. Don't run and tell Amber," she added fiercely. "I inherited his Repo knife and I'll learn how to use it."

"Seeing as I can still overpower you easily, whether you are armed or not, that isn't much of a threat. But why would I do that? Amber and I aren't on good terms on the best of days," he explained patiently. Shilo wondered why she kept looking at his face and feeling sick to her stomach. The man was just talking. He didn't make a move toward her. She wished he would.

"I don't know."

"Repo Man lives on. Well, I'll be." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Keep him on a short leash, will you? I have debts yet to be repaid. I'd hate to be gutted before I can do more than walk by your window." Smile gone now. Eyes drawn and serious. Shilo walked forward, brushing her hair behind her ear.

"Like what?" she asked.

"Didn't you ever hear what happened to the curious pussycat?" he said.

"Tell me! Like what? What else would you do?" She took his hand and, liking the way his mouth fell open slightly, placed it high on her back. From this close, she could see up his nose. She could see the shadow of stubble on his face and neck, under the makeup. She could smell the earth clinging to his clothes.

"Oh, this is a dangerous game, little girl," he chuckled, his hand gliding down. His head ducked, and he mashed his lips against hers, the kiss open-mouthed and hot. Before she'd really adjusted to the force of his head and his tongue prying her lips apart, his hand was groping and squeezing her backside over her skirt. She squeaked, muffled by the kiss, at the instant sensation that was like being tickled with a hot poker from a region tucked under her stomach. The kiss was directed, and purposefully brutal, meant to teach her not to play with fire, and he did not let go of her until she stopped standing there dumbly, frozen in shock, and actually responded. Only once he felt her body push up on her tiptoes, writhing forward to get away from his fingers, and her tongue tentatively dart to touch his, did he let go. Throw her back, more like. She stumbled.

"Perhaps I didn't make myself clear, what with how we were running all over this wretched town." His lipstick was smeared, and she self-consciously pressed a hand to her lips to feel the waxy black he'd blotted there. "I am at your service. You are a beautiful, frightened, _and helpless_ seventeen year old girl. Why am I not surprised that you've sought me out?"

She shrugged. "What services are you offering? Gonna rob a grave for me?"

"That's so impersonal. Why don't you use your imagination? A kiss..." He ran a cold finger down her cheek. "A touch. The city gets mighty lonely, kid. I wouldn't mind warming your bed."

She sighed, hypnotized as he just missed the corner of her mouth to trace, instead, her jaw. "My bed's warm enough."

He stepped back. "Fine. I'm here, every night." He poked a thumb behind his shoulder at the alley, at the poster advertising for the Zydrate Support Network. "And I happen to make a fantastic friend, if you don't mind your bootlaces going missing."

"I don't _have_ bootlaces," she said, dour. "I must leave." She backed up, careful not to trip on a dozing addict.

Neither of them said goodnight. It would have been an unnecessary ending, and seeing as he was her only real acquaintance that didn't want her dead, she wasn't going to close that door just yet. That kiss... She trembled thinking about it, all the way up to her front door. She cast furtive glances right and then left, making sure no one was lying in wait to rob her. Shilo fitted the key into the lock and opened the door.

"Daddy?" She closed the door behind her.

It was possible he was asleep, but as soon as she stepped into the house, she felt as if she'd stepped into ice water, the kind of wrong chill that sinks right to the bones. She looked around, slowly at first, stepping so as not to trip on any furniture. She didn't find him sleeping. She didn't find him awake, either. Not in the kitchen, where she put the groceries on the table, or the hallway, or the den. Now all the lights were on, and she was yelling "Daddy! Dad, where are you?"

She had a sudden, horrific thought that he was in a shadow, in Repo Man regalia, waiting for her to approach so he could cut her open while she watched and tried to get away. How many girls could say their dad and their bogeyman were the same? She was frantic. Where could a man in a wheelchair run off to?

Finally, she stopped to listen, and heard running water. She ran for the bathroom, saw the water coming out from under the door, and saw the color. The wheelchair had been abandoned outside. Her body felt paralyzed by a fear of what she would find, and she forced herself through that and threw open the door.

Nathan was naked in the tub, arms outstretched, his wrist opened. The razor had fallen from his outstretched hand onto the flooded floor. The water was a vibrant red, and the faucet still ran, pushing the red over the sides and onto the tile and under the door. The world thudded to a halt around her, and noises were muted, thoughts were undone.

Shilo screamed.

She forced her nerves to gather and, through tears that were crawling down to drop off the edge of her nose, turned off the faucet, reached through the murky bath to pull the plug and let the water drain. He didn't look too pale. She slapped his face. "Dad, wake up! Wake up!" She pressed her fingers to his pulse like he'd done for her countless times and didn't know if she felt a pulse that was too weak to count or nothing at all. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK. Dad! How could you do this to me? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?"

Panicking, unable to think straight through her tears and pure fright and _outrage_ that he would do this to her, she used her phone to call DJ Granny. "Please help," she sobbed into the phone. "Something bad has happened. Oh, please..."

 


	4. Won't Want For Love

He awoke to find her weeping. This time, he knew it was not Marni. This time, he knew whose tender sobs tore pieces from his still-beating heart. Oh, Shilo, his pride, his treasure, the only thing in this world he could call his own. He'd thought she'd grown-up since... since she learned what a monster he was. Looking down, he saw his wrist had been bound in white. This couldn't be a hospital. There weren't any of those "GENterns," as they were called; technically nurses who, he did not comprehend why, paraded about in those preposterous fetish uniforms. He'd always hated the fetishizing of medicine, which was more than his field. It had been his life. That world of unique human industry had celebrated his mind and his dexterous hands, brilliant at delicately carving out tumors, fat, and scar tissue. He'd been more than a masked horror.

Look what he'd become. A wreck. He was disappointed in himself.

Shilo, seated into a white fold-up chair, cried into her hands. With her knees folded under her chin, her body clothed in a pale pink dress that failed to cover her white thighs, he saw how very young and vulnerable she was. He thought he'd been doing the right thing when he tore the razor through his vein. His death would have freed her to live her own life- change the world, as he knew she could, and be an angel, as Marni had been.

God, and that would be an honest lie. All that was true, except he'd done it for himself. His wife in heaven was waiting for him. Now that his wins were laid out for the entire world to judge, and Shilo had somehow slipped his grasp, Nathan's every waking moment was one of shame, and fury, and deep, cutting loss. What he and Shilo had all those years was good. He'd kept her pure, and safe. He needed her to see that he had only good intentions, and the results spoke for themselves.

"Shilo," he said.

She jerked to attention and dropped her hands. Her feet lowered and touched the ground, and her dress was immodestly, innocently gathered up at the top of her thighs. Her face was bright red. She had her mother's lovely dark eyes, and he had made them blurred and red from weeping. "How could you," she finally said.

"I did it for you," he said weakly.

"No, Dad. You did it for you. You know what? I don't want to hear it."

"You have to know—"

"I'm the one who found you! In your own blood. You put me through that," she accused. He couldn't deny it, exactly—if she'd only listen to him! "I don't care why. Does it matter why you traumatized me? I can't trust you, not even to be alone with a scalpel."

"Sweetheart, please."

"Stop! Dad, you can't make this okay. You can't explain it away, or sweep it under the rug, or pretend it didn't happen." She was up from the chair, her hands tangled up in her wig. "I'm starting to understand why you didn't want me to live in the real world, because here, we have to deal with the consequences of other people's actions. You're legally dead, Dad, because everyone wants you dead. What do you think the Largos would do if they learned? You're not protected by your title anymore. I'm all you've got, and... You're all I have," she admitted, resentfully. She breathed heavily, her angry tears transforming into resolve. "I couldn't take you to a GeneCo hospital. But I couldn't let you die."

"Where am I?"

She smiled wanly. "This is an independent clinic. You were really lucky, actually. They didn't want to... um." Her focus kept shifting to his wrist. "I'm sorry, I can't be here. If you wanted to put me in debt, congrats, Dad, you did it."

"Shilo, wait. Sweetie, what are you saying?" He reached up and took her hand, gently guiding her to sit beside him on the cheap cot. "What debt?"

"I won't keep you in the dark. We'll be honest with each other, like we always should have been." She took a deep, steadying breath. "You killed staff here. These are honest people, and they don't have a lot of dough to spend on things like organ payments. Everyone's seen your face now, Daddy. For them to give you service, I had to promise some things. Since you're awake, I was going to go talk to the management here and see about settling my debt."

"Shilo..." He touched her arm, hating how cold she was, like the dead. This place was cold. He took a ratty blanket folded at his feet and placed it over her shoulders. "Please don't do this."

Shilo laughed, bitterly, staccato, and shrugged off the blanket. "When have we ever listened to what the other person wanted, huh, Dad? You can't talk me out of it. I'm doing this because I do love you." A frown worried her childlike face. "Is that why you did it? Because you said 'I love you' and I didn't say it back."

"No, Shi."

First chance he'd get, he'd take the next exit out of this life. Shilo deserved better than to be dragged down into debt, sunk by his anchor. But, by God, she was an angel. As she walked to the open door, the bright light in the hall made a halo, breaking in the downpour of dark hair and flooding at her feet and drifting between her legs.

* * *

Free clinic, that's what they'd told her. Yeah, free for everyone but her. This Repo Man had massacred several beloved staff, and this was an opportunity for revenge. Turn down care, let him bleed out in the cold. Oh, except it was inconvenient for them to watch his pretty daughter weep. She'd had to beg and plead for them to use technology and medicine to save her dying father. But they'd take it out of her in blood. A blood debt, a devil's bargain. She lost her breath, thinking about the chasm that life was pushing her towards, and leaned on the wall for purchase. She didn't have enough experience to judge if they were taking advantage of her, a sheltered girl with few options, none of them good.

The office door swung open for her, courtesy of the spidery older woman in an olive pants suit. She felt that she was walking to an execution. Ms. Merriman had no sense of humor, and she didn't offer her any of the candy that was in the little dish on the corner of her desk. Shilo fiddled with her hands. Her stomach twisted and turned as she heard details of murdered strangers. A young doctor who had so much potential, and two little boys to feed: lungs. A receptionist who'd worked for GeneCo and backed out when the Largos lobbied for organ repossession: brainstem. It wasn't Shilo's fault. She wanted to take her dad home, and keep him alive and safe. Irrational as it was, she felt she owed him that. Merriman explained that their continued silence, given the circumstances, given the incredible cost, was worth more than her tears.

"I sympathize for what you've been through, and what you continue to deal with. You're an adult before you could ever really be a teenager." She smiled sadly over her tea. "I think we can make an arrangement that everyone will be happy with. Our lawyer—yes, we had to have one—drew up this contract." She passed a clipboard to the girl, heavy with stapled papers.

"What is it? What're the terms, I mean," she fumbled.

"If you want your secret kept, we want something in return. It pains me to say it, but there is a shortage of clean, young organs on the black market. The human body can live with only one kidney. That would be sufficient."

Shilo thought she was going to be sick. She flipped through it, terrified as she remembered that the mighty fine print had been Mag's downfall. "This is a lot," she said, referring to the amount of words.

"By all means, take it and look it over. Go for a walk and clear your head. Unless you have a decision now?"

She demurred with a shake of her head. "No, I want to think about it."

She got up from the chair and stumbled out, out of the office, out of the building, the clipboard pressed to her chest. The cold and the noise hit her at once in a rush. What a babel of blaring adverts and chattering passersby awaited her, disorienting her further. This was not a nice neighborhood. Were any neighborhoods "nice?" Even her grand house was situated by a massive graveyard. A rat skittered past her feet, and with a shriek she darted past the buildings, as if running could save her. The cold air struck her, made her feel alive. It was invigorating, and she never wanted to stop. She hit a dead end. She read the graffiti, laughing. Repossess this, indeed. The city's denizens were a sarcastic bunch, and she loved it.

Investigating a shuffle, a rustle of papers, she cautiously approached a dumpster. She put her fingertips on the edge and stood on the balls of her feet to look inside.

Graverobber read a magazine, _Evening Slice_ , while lying on garbage. He closed the paper and set it down.

"Kid," he acknowledged her with a nod. "Care to join me?"

"No way. You come out here."

He did. "Now I _know_ you must be following me. This is my day of rest, kid."

"In your dreams." She looked him over, surprised that he wasn't covered in dirt. "Um, could you help me?" His eyebrows jumped. She handed over the clipboard. "You know somethin' about reading the fine print."

"What'd they get you for? Can't see you wanting surgery," he mused. "Then again, you never can tell."

"No!" She scowled. "It's for my dad."

"What? 'fraid I don't catch your meaning there." Graverobber took out his monocle, twisting the chain around his index finger. "Your father wants you to..." He scanned the print on the see-through skim of the paper. "... 'relinquish one kidney?' The man has a strange sense of parental responsibility if he'll allow this, much less encourage it."

"He doesn't know! These people want to sell us out, and I have got to do this to keep him secret." She wrung her hands. "I don't have the cash to pay them off."

"Such a shame." He flipped through the papers. "You're still virgin to the knife. For now."

She sighed and wrapped her arms around herself. "I hope I'm doing the right thing. It's hard to tell. We made so many sacrifices for each other already. What's one more?"

"Your relationship has never been one of equals. Hey, little doll, don't you cry." Anticipating her need by the tremor in her voice, he brushed a tear that appeared at the border of her eyes. "Wouldn't want your make-up to smudge."

Shilo tried to smile bravely. "There's no choice. Will it hurt?"

"No. No!" He laughed, and she felt silly for asking and immediately comforted. "Honest, it won't hurt. Not even a twinge. You'll go to sleep, and when you wake up, you'll have a pretty new scar." Her hands, almost of their own accord, touched a yellow stripe in his hair. "Does that help?"

"Yes. Thanks." Her stomach still ached, like she'd swallowed a fruit pit. "I'm so nervous. I don't know how I'll ever let them get that far. Got any ideas?"

"A few. There's meditation... quiet breathing, calm thoughts..." He pondered, or pretended to. "You have an idea of your own?"

"I'll take that kiss now." She grabbed his shoulders.

He scooped her up, held her close, and kissed her voraciously, so greedy it made her head spin. All her concentration went into putting as much into it as he was. She was unafraid of falling. Adrenaline fueled the passion, and she kicked her legs, pressed her palms flat against his chest. He growled and swung about, depositing her onto an alcove in the wall, then bending to cover her body with his. She giggled at the wet sound of kissing. Acting on a strange wish to feel his skin, and see just how much chest hair was under that silk shirt, she reached for the bottom of the garment and tugged up.

"Hey. Not so fast, there, sugar." He kissed her cheek soundly. He looked to one side, checking for observers. "Doesn't look like there are any witnesses. Alright, you want to forget? I can help you. Let me help you..."

Breathing heavily, she nodded, and took one end of his scarf in each hand to draw him down. He undressed her quickly, tapping her lips when she complained about the cold. In return, he gave her his coat to sit on, and she tried in vain to cover herself with her hands. She didn't have much in the way of curves, and she knew it. Graverobber had stopped kissing and touching, and had left her to shiver as he scrambled through the dumpster.

"Knew I saw something in here... Where is it... Aha!" He came up with a prize, what looked like a purple egg in closed packaging. He waved it at her. "Kid, has anyone ever told you your breasts are _darling_?"

She blushed and adjusted, one arm moving to cover her chest. She was hidden in the alcove; someone would have to be standing in Graverobber's position to see her. Even so, she worried, and that added to the rush. Anyone could walk by. "What's that you've got?" she asked.

"Vibe. Never been opened. Hell if I know why these people buy and then don't use." He cracked the plastic. It should have taken scissors, but he was just that tough. She laughed. "Move your hand."

"Which one? Why?" She moved back.

He checked for batteries, smiled smugly, and hit a button on the controller. The egg hummed and shook in his hand. "Trust me."

"Bad choice of words."

"For pity's sakes..." He put a hand on her knee and roughly moved her leg apart. He spread her lips and placed the vibrating sphere up to her opening. She gasped, her legs immediately flying up, almost kicking him in the nose.

"Ah!" she cried, twisting and wriggling against the wall. He pushed it further in. "Graverobber!"

He grinned at her.

"Fuck! Stop, stop..." But her hand was in his hair, fingers tight. "Fuck." He was stimulating things she didn't know could be stimulated. He stopped and pulled it out.

"Something wrong? Kid?" he spat out. He kissed her shoulder and let her feel the vibrations on her thigh, teasing.

"I didn't... you can.. do that?" she heaved. "More, please, more." She locked her arm around him, hand to the back of his head, and pushed his head to the crook of her neck, and he nibbled and ran his tongue in random patterns up and down the sensitive skin.

"This," he murmured in her ear, "right here?" The 'vibe,' whatever that meant, slipped back into her folds, and she moaned as Graverobber found a spot that she didn't even know existed. "That's your clitoris."

"Ah—didn't know that," she barely got out, bending her head down. "Oh, it..."

"Feels good?" She nodded helplessly. "It should." He stroked her walls with his thumb, and the unexpected contrast in sensations made her gasp. "Hey. You react any louder, and someone could _hear_ you."

That pushed her over the edge, and she choked out a sob of ecstasy as she rocked. Satisfied, he kissed her shoulder, turned and chucked the egg into the dumpster. She thought he was finished, but he hunched and kissed her stomach, trailed his tongue down between her thighs. Her eyes widened. Surely, he couldn't be—and then he did, and she had only just stopped shaking from her first hysterical paroxysm when he slipped his tongue inside her. He lapped up all the wetness that had come out of her. She sighed. She could melt. She could die happy.

"Okay. Get up, get dressed." He picked up the bundle of her clothes and tossed them at her. "Have fun with your surgery, kid. I bet you'll look beautiful with a scar. More beautiful, that is."

As she got dressed, and even though he'd serviced her, Shilo couldn't help but feel a little bit used.

* * *

Shilo took a strong tranquilizer and went under the knife. They did precise work. She didn't feel a thing when she came to several hours later, but she did vomit. And, true, there was a scar over her stomach, each stitch obvious and black. Merriman told her it would heal up nicely and that everything had gone according to plan. There was nothing to worry about.

They even let her look at her kidney, bagged and in a cooler full of ice, before they tagged it and shipped it off to who knows where.

She avoided her dad while she recovered. She was too embarrassed by what had happened between her and Graverobber, and she worried the whole incident could come tumbling out. Her dad had a way of making her feel guilty for even breathing. How would he react to her giving up her kidney? How would he react to her giving up _everything_?

Finally, when she was up to it and could walk without an IV pump, she went into his room.

"How are you, Shilo?" he said, his voice warm even if his face showed no emotion. She ruffled his hair.

"I'm okay. Daddy, don't pull me on your lap. I'm weak yet," she explained.

"How did you cover the costs?" he asked worriedly.

"Umm. I sold them my kidney. I read the contract all the way through, don't worry."

"I wasn't worried. I know you can take care of yourself." He was careful as he kissed her cheek. "By God, you are an angel. My angel." She hugged him and forced a smile. She should have felt relief that he wasn't yelling at her. Instead, she only felt resignation. "Let's go home, Shi."

 


	5. Wager All

The pills shook out into a shaking palm. Shit. That was too many. The girl replaced them and picked out the proper amount one at a time, and added the excess to a pill organizer. It had been his idea, a way to get him home faster, where she could get rest. She didn't agree with his assessment. The sole reason she'd complied was to keep him talking to her. His silence, his volatile moods, the disappointed frown that graced his troubled face; truth was, having been raised in the role of dutiful daughter, it all affected her greatly. Daddy, you're my world. He was her anchor, and how could that be, given his instability? She snapped shut the bottles of pills and poured water from the refrigerator into a glass.

Nathan's wrist remained bandaged. He watched her, and she could feel his eyes as she trembled and prepared his meds. It had been arranged for her.

"You aren't going to hide this under your tongue, right?" she asked him, holding out the glass in one hand and the pills in the other.

He chuckled. "Familiar with that, Shi?"

She did not smile and thought to herself, Like I'd tell you if I was. She said nothing at all, and watched him down the stuff. He held the glass, his temperature smearing the condensation. "How are you, daughter?"

"What do you mean?"

Did he mean her resentment? Could he know that she wanted nothing more than to leave this house, be free of her chains, and flee this city, if she could? She shut that down quickly before it spread. Shilo could not let herself feel that, because then she'd dwell, and then she'd despair. She had to find some other way to feel.

There were other options. She'd even recently learned a way to override resentment, self-pity, the negative emotions that were luxuries... that made her feel like a bad daughter... Oh, God. Her nails dug into her forearms. It couldn't be possible that she was a bad daughter, not while she took care of him and did what he asked.

"Your incision," he said.

"Oh. Right. Nothing's wrong."

A hand went to her belly, not her own. He asked if it hurt. She said no, because she didn't want him to worry. She didn't want to make him feel guilty. Who knew with him? What if she told the truth and that was more than he could take? Truth was, the incision burned, and she had trouble keeping food down. Her dreams were haunted by impossible flashbacks of her lying on a table, her eyes narrow slits of barely conscious perception, gloved hands cutting into her skin. That wasn't anything she could tell him. She lied.

"Stop." She brushed his hand off. "I have to get out of my pajamas. There's a guest who will need entertaining."

"Oh, a guest?" His eyes narrowed. "You made a friend?"

"You could say that." The corner of her mouth twitched. Not until she was out of reach did she half-mumble, "I don't know if you'll want to meet him."

"Him? Shilo. Shilo, get back here."

When that ice and panic gripped his voice, familiar and awful, she couldn't go back and face him. Talk about it? She couldn't do that. It was easier to hurry up the stairs, heart in her throat, choking her, and shut the door of her room. She locked it knowing that her dad couldn't force his way in and shout or, worse, gently scold and remind her of her mother's death.

He'd murdered her. Shilo closed her eyes and hit the door with her body. Why had he placed the blame on her? She'd grown up convicted of the crime of killing her own mother from within. The truth rested on the top of her brain and still wasn't sinking in. Nor was what she was going to do tonight, and with whom. She ripped off her nightgown and replaced it with a layered skirt puffing out from her hips and a sleeveless pink shirt with a ruffled, high-necked collar. Shilo Wallace felt pretty.

She felt hopeless, more so than she ever had when her sickness had been real. Yeah, thinking that death was imminent, and this was worse. Life was worse.

The bell at the gate rang. She hurried down, outside and by the closed gate. Graverobber rubbed his hands together, blew on them; he was not immune to the cold.

"Hey," he said, low in his throat. "Care to let me in?"

"Okay."

He swiped up a flower from the ground, and proffered it. She took it, nervously crushed it in her hands. "We're really doing this," she said, her hair falling to cover her blushing cheeks. "Hard to believe this is happening." They walked into the house, to the landing. He reached casually for her hand; she noticed and slipped away, a pace faster than him. "Could you wait here for a second? Getting some water," she said, going past him, towards the kitchen.

Shilo couldn't look Nathan in the eye. She climbed up on the counter to reach a wine glass and filled it with water, sipped it with her attention trained to the ground. He said in a steely voice, "Shilo, who did you let into my home?"

"No one."

Whistling fell through the air. Nathan's mouth tightened.

"No one you know," she said quickly.

She rushed back to Graverobber. "Let's go. Dad's not happy that someone's here." She took his cuff, not his hand, and tried to pull him up the stairs.

"Whoa, hold up, kid. Are we angering the Butcher of this unfair isle? Because, really..." His feet were firmly planted, and she tugged hurriedly, failing to hide her fright. "If lying with you means waking up with a knife in my heart—"

"He doesn't know it's you! Please, come on."

She regretted saying it, because he paused, and his eyes crinkled with glee. "You mean you didn't tell him? Didn't tell him..." He drew his arm back suddenly, and she flew down the two steps she'd been up with a gasp. "... how I'm here for a little play date?"

"I, ah, didn't think it was appropriate," she stammered.

Before another word could be said, he heard a sound, pressure added to the floorboards. Curious, he turned his head and found Repo Man, unmasked and in a wheelchair, a dismal, unshaved prospect in dark colors. Skull patterned button-down shirt, trousers that needed to be ironed. "Shilo invited me. I'm a big fan," he said, his tone an ironic twist on the polite and genteel. Shilo let go of his sleeve, and he wiped his hand on his jeans, then offered it to her father.

"You're a criminal," Dr. Wallace said warily, ignoring the gesture. He looked from Graverobber to his daughter, frozen and frightened. She had that classic deer in the headlights look, magnified in his presence. The question was there, that uncertainty. Every father's worst fear was embodied in Graverobber. He held no illusions about that. It was rare that he could pursue a girl whose father was around to be protective. Here was Shilo's father, one of the wickedest villains to stalk the city streets, and he was unable to stop him. That was too good to resist.

Graverobber bowed his head and said, "Then I am in good company. According to Shilo, you won't be alerting the police to my arrival."

"Graverobber, stop," Shilo whined, embarrassed or panicked, he couldn't tell.

"Leave," the man said, even though there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. "Shilo isn't allowed to have visitors."

"Dad, don't." Her voice so dejected it could break a heart of stone.

Graverobber smiled and said, "Would you like to know my intentions?"

Dr. Wallace glared and said nothing.

Graverobber relished every word, said cheerfully, with an unabashed grin, "I'm here to deflower your precious little girl."

To his credit, he did not wince, or shout. He held the glare. Graverobber took Shilo's hand tiny hand in his, their fingers intertwining, and took her upstairs. She led him through the maze of dark corridors into her room, and shut the door.

* * *

Nathan lingered at the foot of the stairs. Not Shilo. Not his daughter. She'd defied him before, but nothing of this magnitude. Graverobbers were the scum of the earth, not worthy of licking her boots. He put his hand over his eyes. This was still his home. He and Marni had turned this house into a home, a harbor in the storm for their child. His one and only child: pure, beautiful, moon-pale and so fragile it seemed a strong word could make her shatter.

He'd tested that, in recent weeks. He saw how much he meant to her. She didn't offer empty platitudes of love, because it showed in her reactions to his treatment of her. If he smiled, her step went lighter, the house became cleaner, a shadow was lifted. If he scowled or said she was careless, she turned away to hide from his disapproval. It was empowering, and it shamed him that he felt so. But this was his Shilo. He had a right to see if she truly did love him. And she did.

In return, he wanted to protect her. How could he when she didn't try to help herself? Letting a man into her home... into her bedroom? He shuddered, a fresh wave of revulsion hitting him. He had failed her.

Laughter. A gentle moan, and then another in a higher register. Nathan closed his eyes. His daughter's bed, his wife's deathbed, one and the same. Full and soft, an embrace of the downy comforter, the protection of the plastic canopy a relatively new installation. He could see it in his mind's eye, the whole sordid scene: the criminal, tall and strong and able-bodied, taking Shilo to bed, then undressing her, then roughly kissing her without compassion.

Nathan was more surprised to feel his feet flex than the heat in his creased trousers. He curled his toes. They'd said he'd be paralyzed. But they were wrong, weren't they? Half-rate doctors, not qualified to violate his daughter and slice into her, unworthy of being her first surgeons—But what was he saying, that he had wanted her to be cut at all?

It should have been me, he told himself. If I could not have died, then I should have been the one to drag the knife across her belly. To drag my lips across her skin...

Upstairs, Shilo took his weight and didn't know why tears dripped down the corners of her eyes. She was grateful that his eyes were closed, and he couldn't see that she cried. The bed frame struck the wall in blows. It brought to mind the slap of her father's hand on her face, and she cried out, remembering the shock and pain.

"Too much?" Graverobber asked, stilling within her.

She hurriedly brushed away the signs of weeping and shook her head, took his hand and kissed it. He was surprised at the gesture.

"Not enough."

Nathan heard the cries, the rattling, squeaking mattress, the wall taking a beating. He listened only to ascertain that she wasn't being hurt, but each dimmed sound sent a dagger into his ribs. She was his daughter. This wasn't right. It shouldn't happen, not like this, not at all. Why had she taken a criminal, a fiend, a terrible human being into her bed, into her anatomy? Oh, Shilo. She made all the same noises Marni used to, when they fell into bed together. That had been different, like a holy celebration of love. They had been in love. The desperate little gasps, signaling climax, the final rapturous moan. That was the moment Marni would fall back against the covers, spent and blissful and proud. It was the best part, her face there, post-coital. With her light brown hair infused with life, in unclasped curls on the pillow, and her mouth in a gentle smile, she looked for all the world like a Botticellian angel.

Between the wretched man's arrival and their completion, Nathan Wallace's world took on a different shape. His return to Marni was no longer all-important. He'd sworn to himself that he would protect his daughter from the outside world by locking her in and keeping her to him. Now that she was out, the threat had changed. She could still be controlled. This Graverobber was an unacceptable intrusion in his home and his existence, and Shilo needed to be reigned in. He would do right by her, if it was the last thing he did. In her bed, with the coverlets all kicked down to their feet, Shilo sighed to sleep, the last sensation before impenetrable darkness, his kiss-bruised lips caressing her shoulder.

 


	6. The Queen's Approach

That first night. The air quality was poor, the stench of rot carried on the spring wind, and Nathan Wallace held a mask over his nose and mouth the whole way there. His heart beat a frantic tune as his mind played through every mad, unlikely possibility for the evening. When she had accepted his invitation, a subtle nod and a smile and then she was gone, his reality had unhinged. Work did not matter. His collaborations with Rotti did not matter. In his thoughts, all there was room for was her. Marni had been an idea on the periphery. A beautiful idea, the woman on another's arm, or doing cross-stitch in an armchair, or passing her fiancée papers to sign—all this was unrealized potential. They spoke, stilted half-conversations full of untruths. How are you? Fine, she would say, her gaze softening; I think you and my husband-to-be are working too hard.

Anything to turn a profit, even if it meant he didn't come home to his apartment until the wee hours of the morning. Their research was ground-breaking, revolutionary. Remarkable results: whole circulatory systems grown in tanks, independent of a human life! The lesser magazines distorted the truth and said they were bastardizing the organs, splicing them with animal genes to make them at a cheaper price. This was nonsense. Rotti was furious, and banned the press from capturing footage. He conducted limited interviews with reporters who were sponsored to portray him in no less than heroic terms; questions were faxed to these "journalists" a day in advance, and make-up teams were in greater abundance than fact checkers. Nathan understood the need for this. In times of crises, the people needed a show, not the truth. Marni, however, did not approve.

One day, when Rotti left Nathan in the lab to attend a photo shoot with his teenage children, Marni sidled up to Nathan and placed a white hand on his sleeve. He startled and nearly dropped the vial in hand. Recovering from the surprise, he replaced the precious glass and went to wash his hands.

"I didn't hear you come in," he said.

"Nathan, I need to speak with you."

"About what?" They spoke occasionally, conversations that went on longer than they should have if they were strictly appropriate. They would find themselves in the same room, and neither would concede space to the other. Chatter helped, but lately it hadn't been idle. Lately, it had been intimate. They used first names.

"GeneCo. Has Rotti gone mad? We're supposed to be helping people recover from the plague, not make things worse for them!" She was upset, her eyes red. He wondered—hoped?—that more than just the plight of humanity troubled her.

"We are helping. Nothing comes free. This is a free market, and if the people demand quality, then we'll give them quality. Your lungs, they're first rate, are they not?" he asked gently, pulling out a stool for her. She settled on it, somewhat awkwardly considering her long dress. The hem touched the floor. Her hands settled in her lap. The nails were bitten raw.

"I feel terrible about that," she said. "People waiting for organs they desperately need, and I proceed to the front of the line. It shouldn't be that way."

"You see, that's what we're working on. If our plan works, we won't have to rely on the organ transplant systems any longer. Mass organs, enough to supply all of humanity." Organs, accelerated growth in the nutrient tanks, could be matured to premium status, then bagged and refrigerated until needed. Just like blood. A match for every body, without exception.

"At what cost? This can't be cheap."

"No. No, it isn't. If you don't mind my saying so, it's nothing you'll ever need worry about." He chuckled and smiled, couldn't help it.

"Rotti..." She hesitated, sensing that loyalties were strong all around. She could not speak freely, and neither could he. Both were tied to that man who had built this company up from the ground into a thriving enterprise. If Nathan could help it, he would see this endeavor through. He would help GeneCo save the remnants of mankind—and if it made him rich as a prince, he wouldn't object.

"Marni. You're clearly stressed." Still smiling, he took out a pad of paper and scrawled something on it, ripped off the top sheet and held it out to her. She took it with a wondering expression. "That's a prescription for a day to yourself, away from the business."

"A rest day? Rotti need me," Marni protested softly.

"No, he needs you to be happy. You won't be happy unless you get outside." He clicked his pen, replaced it in his shirt pocket, and peered at her over his glasses. "What do you like to do when you aren't being the perfect woman?"

"I'm not perfect, Doctor!" she laughed. "God knows I'm not."

"Fine, then, what do you like to do when you aren't being the imperfect woman?"

"Oh, it's silly." She pressed her lips together like she held a secret. Her hand touched to her mouth as she thought, really thought. It occurred to him that it might have been some time since anyone had asked her something in that vein. The thought made him sad. It was around then that he noticed she was uncommonly and plainly beautiful. Even without the heavy make-up, the done hair, the rich, dark clothes, she would be a beautiful woman. She wore everything else like a mask.

"Please," he said.

"Well... There's Mag. She's my dearest friend, Nathan. If she's busy, I read. I sing," she confessed, a blush rising under her eyes.

"You must sing beautifully. Have you been to the observatory?" He didn't know what made him ask that, or why there was sweat on his palms. He'd never noticed women too much, not obsessively. They were fine to look at, and he'd had a girlfriend in medical school, but no one had made this impression on him. What was odd about it was that he'd known Marni for some time before that moment, when he found her beautiful, when the idea of her began to take on truth and dimension.

"When I was a little girl, my aunt took me. My brother had just died, and... I didn't understand. God, does any child understand death? It's explained to them, that the person is there and not there, and all they care about is that their world is interrupted by a funeral." She shook her head at the little girl in the past, gone now. "We went to the big telescope, you know, the one with the copper plating? She showed me the constellations. There's nowhere to see the stars at home." The silence was stunning. She rose to leave. "I've been silly. You're right, Dr. Wallace. Some rest is just what I need. Goodbye."

"Wait. Will you meet me there?" he asked, not knowing he was going to do so until the words were out.

Which took them here, to the observatory, the following week. It was dark and quite isolated. The pollution and the choice of location ensured that they would be alone. It had been agonizing, not speaking to her the whole week, only waiting, hoping she hadn't forgotten, hoping Rotti wouldn't discover the truth.

They had nothing to hide, not yet. Nathan held his ground. There was nothing wrong in this. Then, the door opened and closed with a burst of fresh air from the filtered room before. He turned, heart hammering in his throat. Marni emerged from the shadow in a cloak, her open, vulnerable expression one to break his heart. There was fright and hope there. Hope for him.

"Marni," he said. "How was the drive?"

Sidestepping the question, she asked, "Why did you ask me here, to discuss the weather? It's terrible, as always." Beneath the cloak, her dress was white, floral, and fell to mid-calf. It put him in mind of a fair, green countryside. God, when was the last time anyone had seen green grass, or blue sky? For months, his life had been test tubes and chemical reactions. This girl, this _woman_ had been awakening something powerful and new in him, coming to fruition now.

"I wanted to see you."

"Why?" she demanded.

"Because... Because I'm infatuated with you!" he burst out.

"You're _infatuated_ with me," she repeated. "Infatuated."

"Yes." He took off his glasses and shakily wiped them on his shirt, then replaced them.

"You are Rotti's second. His choice to replace him as head of GeneCo. You are the main consultant in all his endeavors," she said slowly. "I'm going to be his wife. His wife, Nathan!"

"I know that. Are you happy with him?"

"What?" she asked, taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"

"Are you in love with him? Does he make you happy?"

She stared at him, her defiance giving way to something like the truth. "No. He used to." Marni smiled. "You make me a little happy. I think you even believe in what you say. There's no performance in your speech. You're young and earnest..."

"Marni, we're the same age," he told her. He was closer to her, now. There was a great and wonderful precipice all around them. The unsaid things that had accumulated in months past were all around them, electrifying the air, charging each word. It had built, and built, and grown to this point. A flower takes only sunlight to grow. A smile had never come so easily as when she stood there.

"Yes. We are. Nathan... He loves me so much. Why am I in love with someone else?" She raised her eyes to him, hesitant. Exquisite.

He sighed. "I don't have any answers." Her hand stroked his cheek, her lips following. And there, in the dim, secluded room, with the moon the only light, there were no more questions. Beneath the cloak, she was an angel. In her lips, he found a secret. A kiss, only for him, and in her kiss, sweet, soft, the gentle slide of her mouth against his, he discovered how long she'd carried her love for him. His was new, and back in his apartment, he could not stop learning new blessings about her to love; learning how her skin pimpled in the cold, how she held a book in her cross-legged lap and balanced a cup of tea on her knee.

He watched her read from where he stood by the newly kindled fireplace. Fascinated, and delighted, and afraid that this moment would shatter, he could only watch her eyes trace the words, translating them into images in her head.

"This is beautiful. Nathan, listen to this," she said. And she read poetry, her honeyed voice turning words he knew so well into something else altogether. Something greater.

He didn't try to hold her. She claimed Rotti wouldn't wonder where she was, and he let her have his bed for the night. He took care of his lust in the bathroom before he was able to sleep, knowing she was there, in his bed, warm, young, beautiful. She loved him. That was unbelievable. Somehow, in the months to come, that didn't fade. It grew. In the months that followed, they were more than close. That would have been an understatement. She watched over him at work, eager to learn, eager for him to teach her. When they were alone, their mouths and hands spoke as efficiently as their words ever did. And he learned more about her than was apparent from her files. She had let Rotti sweep her off her feet too young, before she knew who she was. She'd known Mag for as long as she could remember, and Mag entranced her. She was convinced that the woman would be sublimely famous, if Rotti delivered and helped her. The Largos kept their promises, and Nathan knew that.

Her lungs were from another person, not grown in a tank. They'd extended her life by who knows how many years, but they were far from perfect. She was weak, had difficulty climbing stairs, often found herself breathless. Cold winds brought a cough, and she went everywhere with a mask. It hurt Nathan to see her in pain.

When he took her to bed, at last, the experience had been transformative. She gave him ecstasy and he tried, as best he could, to give pleasure as generously as he'd received it. After, she'd lain with her head on the pillow, her hand stroking his hair. He kissed her belly.

"Marni," he whispered.

"Nathan... I can't stay with Rotti anymore. I can't. Mag had her surgery scheduled. Her contract is signed. That was my last reason." Her voice shook, and when he looked up, he saw that she was struggling not to cry. What he said next came so easily, so naturally that he didn't know why it had taken him so long to get to this point. He took her hand.

"Marry me."

Rotti understood. No hard feelings, my friend, but come back and work with us after the honeymoon! He was their best man, and the wedding present was excessive. Marni hesitated at taking it. Are you sure, Rotti? He assured them that they were both important to him, and he would not have them living in squalor. Nathan shook his hand, and that was that. They moved into an enormous mansion, decorated it.

Married life agreed with him. He liked waking up beside her, and stumbling groggily about in the morning until they had coffee. Read the newspaper, go to work, come home, sit by the fire and speak softly. They argued rarely, and often went out on the balcony to look at the stars.

Then Marni got pregnant, which had seemed a blessing. They decided to call her Shilo.

And it had all come crashing down, as he'd known, deep inside, it would. Her lungs could not take the strain. A cough became pneumonia, tinged with the poison in the air. She didn't respond to normal treatments. She was sick, and seven months pregnant.

From the moment he cut into her, to save their child, he'd fractured. He'd had no choice. She was past helping, and when he cut her open, delivering that final shock to her system, a part of him had died. A new beast emerged that found pleasure in the sensation of flesh splitting at his scalpel's touch. His wife! He wept over her body, his angel, pale with death. Her smile was gone forever. He was a monster. Killed his wife. He needed her after that, more than ever. Nathan couldn't cope without her. He buried an empty coffin in the mausoleum and put Marni into her finest dress. Her eyes, one last stroke of kindness, went to Magdalene, formerly blind, who now could see. Her star shot off into the night, and he was careful to avoid her after the funeral. He told her it had been too late to save her goddaughter. Too late to save anyone.

Marni was in the wall, and when his despair was too great, he went to her, sat in the chair in the hall, and watched the many images of Marni smile and turn slightly. Gone. Dead, dead, because he had failed her.

What tore him from his reverie was the sound of Shilo coming down the stairs.

He'd be damned if he was to lose Shilo, too.

 


	7. Isn't It a Lovely Night?

His half-waken arousal dimmed when he laid eyes on his daughter, when the father in him looked her over with sympathy at how gingerly she stepped down the stairs. Shilo had been a virgin, and while teenage girls normally experimented with finding pleasure in their young bodies, it did not prepare them for the realities of sex. Oh, good lord, had they used protection? That bastard. If he made Shilo sick, Nathan would rip off his testicles and feed them to him. He had laid hands on her. He needed to be gutted for what he'd done.

"Dad?" Shilo balled up her hand and pressed it to her eye, twisted it. "You aren't sleeping."

"No, I think I was." He mused at her, managed to get out the ghost of a smile. She'd have to walk by him when she reached the last step. It was not avoidable. When she didn't, she put a hand on his shoulder, as if to move him out of the way.

"Excuse me" was what she said, one shy stranger to her father.

"Oh, of course." He sneered and reversed enough to let her pass. The wheels twisted so he could follow her movements.

She paused. "Dad, can we talk about my godmother?"

"I don't see the point, honey," he said.

"There's not much for me to go on, other than what the TV tells me. I got all that over the past seventeen years. She was an unknown until Rotti discovered her and restored her eyes. She founded charities, did tours, and most of all promoted GeneCo." The corners of her mouth turned up, and the smile lit into the dark eyes passed down from Marni. "And Mom made her my godmother, which you never told me."

"Do you want me to apologize for that?" he asked tiredly.

"Yes! You apologized on stage for the poisonous treatments. Was that because you were afraid of losing me?" she huffed.

"I'd already lost you, dear. There was nothing left for me."

"I don't understand," she said, sweetly confused.

"You are my everything. You rejected me for _him_." Nathan couldn't distinguish between Rotti and Graverobber, at present. He shut his eyes, pressing down his feelings. When he opened them again, his expression was blank and penitent. "I was glad to die. Wished for it for so many years."

"Oh, you are so full of it!" She stormed past him. He caught her arm in a vise-like grip, causing her to shudder to a stop. "Let go!"

Ignoring her, he snarled, "That was my error. I can't leave you to your own devices. You're just a child!"

"I'm seventeen, Dad. I'm not a baby. I can live on my own, just set me free!" she pleaded, pulling on her arm, prying at his fingers with the other hand. He did not give.

"To make your own choices?" Cruelly, he jerked her a step closer and pulled up her shirt to show the incision that was slowly fading. Shilo sniffed and, in defiance or simple refusal to look, turned up her chin, biting her lip in the tell he'd come to recognize as a way she tried to keep from crying. He let it fall. His point had been made. "You aren't strong enough!"

"Yes, I am!" she protested, lacking mettle to make it stick with him. "It didn't even hurt."

"I don't care! You're my daughter."

"And you abused me! You could have killed me. I—," She faltered, her eyes rolling, and she went limp for a moment before getting back her balance, the swoon passing quickly. He had to find the automatic reflex: telling her to take her medicine, dispensing it. He felt a flicker of regret that her spells still came about. She tugged, again, on her arm. "Please, what is this about? Everyone has surgery, it's not just me! And I did it for you, what's wrong with that?"

"No, it's not only that," he admitted, shaking his head.

"Dad-!"

He yelled, "I can smell the sin on you!" Twisted her arm hard, made her shriek. She sprawled to her knees, and he held her somewhat upright by her arm. She was crying, and he couldn't make himself stop. He was full of rage. "This is what I feared! You're too young. You have no idea how cruel the world can be." She'd learned from him, he thought grimly. Hadn't he taught her cruelty, and selfishness? But a man had disturbed her innocence. That was another animal of evil.

"What sin?" she said. He looked at her, and she winced again, not from pain. "You _knew_?"

"I heard you," he told her sharply.

"Oh, God, Dad, that's sick." She shrank in revulsion and shame. "You mean you _listened_. You listened to ME!"

"And what if I hadn't? If he'd hurt you, raped you? Did you even consider that?" Her skin was candy-striped under his hand. She cried out- "Ah!" – as he turned her arm again. "Shilo, answer me!"

"You're right," she exclaimed breathily. "Dad. I was stupid." She stood until her eyes were level with his. "I love you." As if those were the words that unlocked a tightness in his ribcage, he exhaled and let his grip on the angel slacken enough for them both to breathe freely. She peeled his stiff fingers off, one by one, and stood there. "I'm not sorry about it. I gave up my kidney for you—,"

"And your virginity?" he interpolated.

"I gave that up for _me_. He was nice to me. He listened to me. Do you want me to stop seeing him?"

"I listen to you, honey," he tried, unwilling to say yes, he wanted her to stop seeing him, and furthermore that he was jealous, that he could see she'd been hurt by how she placed her feet and stood to keep pressure from shooting up to her pelvis.

Shilo shook her head. "You never have. I'd start to talk, and you'd leave me. For work," she gently added, and moved a step back from him. "where you'd cut people open." He couldn't look at her. The light from a lamp made the edges of her shirt transparent; her thinness was obvious. She was the survivor of his own personal war. They both were.

"It was the only way Rotti wouldn't tell you about your mother."

"I've been so afraid of you. I didn't want to take you in, even though you can't really do anything to me now. What if you made me your captive again?" She searched for answers, and he had nothing for her, except some false and empty hope that he could change. He didn't want to change. The one way he knew of to control her was fear, and he wouldn't give that up. She sat on the third step. "All I want is some answers about who I am."

"You're going to keep seeing him, aren't you," Nathan said.

She shrugged. "You won't be. That's all that matters."

Presumably, that meant the bastard would be creeping out the window.

"We can speak some other time. Surely, you can be patient."

"Dad, I've waited my whole life!" Shilo tried, in vain, to appeal to him.

"I said no," he said harshly, dismissing her.

Marni, pardon him; turn her face away from his mistakes, even this one, but he needed time inside his thoughts to devise what to do with the violence growing in his hands. He couldn't take it out on repossession victims any more, and the first impulse was to take it out on his daughter, who did not deserve it, and who would no longer love him unconditionally. Not to mention what else was growing. He wished Shilo would sit a little more carefully; his Repo life had taken care of all extra energies, leaving him to be a devoted, if mostly absent, father.

She said she'd have to find work to pay the bills. He said that was fine. It wasn't as if he could stop her, really, and it was safer for her here, in a good neighborhood, with a gate that locked, and bars on her balcony.

She scowled. "I wasn't asking your permission."

* * *

Graverobber laid in Shilo Wallace's bed, watching the television blare out pointless noise. It droned on, the tide of music, adverts, and what passed for news crashing over him, reminding him exactly how stupid the population was. The pair of properly dressed anchormen had quick, wry banter, and the amount of pollutants in the air was reportedly under twenty percent this evening. He didn't believe it, and gave a hacking cough to punctuate the bullshit.

Shilo popped open the door, stood there a moment framed by the hall. She stood there, as if unused to being there at all, pale and silent.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," he remarked. Wordlessly, she closed the door, undressed until she stood shivering in her underwear, and crept back into her bed, right beside him. He'd pulled the covers up to his hips, and her slim body on top of the blankets tucked him in. He almost apologized for checking the news, but thought better of it. He simply, silently used the remote to switch it off, then tossed the remote on the ground, where his clothes were scattered without care.

"Where'd you get to?" he asked with an easy smile.

He brought her in with one arm to lie against his naked chest. He couldn't describe her scent. It was warm, even if she was deathly chill; she nestled closer to him to capture some of his heat. He stroked her arm, up to the shoulder, the curve into her neck, and back down to her hand, which he squeezed. She breathed out.

"Don't. No questions," she said, all solemn and stern.

She could feel herself slipping. If not for Graverobber to hold onto, she'd be alone in this awful, vacant house with a man she hated. Her father, who she should love and tried her hardest to. Love was an obligation. Love was a millstone at her neck, and shackles on her feet.

"Something I said?" he asked, a bit amused, too worn out by the day of laboring in the graveyards and back alleys to note that anything was amiss.

"For once in your life, be quiet..." She turned on her stomach, pushed down on her arms to propel her body up. She kissed his mouth and snaked her tongue between his lips to touch and mingle. The arm around her back kept her on the earth.

The Repo Man's daughter broke off the kiss, and she watched blue eyes grow wide, then snap half-shut, the mouth dropping open as her little white hand slid under the covers.

"Shilo," he began.

She shook her head. "Don't talk. Feel."

 


	8. The Wanting Comes in Waves

"Can we go somewhere?" she asked him a week later, her arms around him as they embraced in the graveyard, the door to Marni's mausoleum at her back. To an outside observer, it would have looked like Graverobber was playing hide and go seek. In truth, he hid Shilo, extinguished her little light by covering her entirely.

He stroked her hair. "Such as what?"

"I've heard about motels. People pay a small sum to rent rooms... with beds." Her mouth ghosted past his lips to press angelic kisses to his jaw and then his throat. A hand was at the back of his head, fingers tangling in rainbow-colored hair. In no time at all, she'd learned just what to do to make him her marionette, bend and control him with a touch. Then, in an instant, he'd turn the tables and leave her breathless, with a pounding heart and the feeling gone in her lower extremities. That was all it was: a game. A duel of sorts, a struggle for power and identity.

If there had ever been a mysterious wonderment in her dealings with him, well, that was gone now. That, too, had been deadened, and that made her bitter, terribly bitter. What seventeen year old wanted to be jaded? She wanted to feel the butterflies that books starring young women told her were inevitable, born from the magic of a single kiss. She wanted to have the focus and energy to think about Graverobber in fond terms when he wasn't around. Instead, he was just a means of distraction, a device to take her away from it all for a little while. There was a powerful anesthetic in his touch, sending sparks lancing up her spine, then silencing her thoughts.

Shilo didn't think she was capable of romantic feelings.

"Yes, that is true. We could do that." He disentangled her, smoothly removing her arms from around him to hold her up to the door. "How's your scar?"

"Healing. It still hurts," she admitted. "I can't sleep."

"Sure, that's the only reason. Hell, kid, if you want a cure for what ails you..."

He took out a vial and held it up to her eyes, throwing the blue shadows on the small white canvas. The whites of her eyes took on the color, even.

"What are you doing?" she hissed, angry.

So if he gave her drugs, did that make her his whore? Didn't he remember what they, together, in ignorant conspiracy, did to Marni's well preserved corpse? Her dad's taxidermy project still contained the glow until Shilo, armed with Graverobber's needle, came along. Nothing was sacred.

"Come on. I've seen your pain. Why agonize?" he challenged.

"Get that out of my face!" she yelled, slapping his hand away.

The vial flew and smashed on the wall. It was on pure instinct that his large hand wrapped her throat, shoved her against the wall. A pulse beat in her temple, and there was a hammering throughout. Graverobber's face accurately reflected her horror, her anger; he quickly removed himself and stalked away.

"Graverobber, wait! Please come back!" she wailed.

He waved a hand in the air and continued on his way, and she opened the door and shut it before her, shut her inside the dark and lonely crypt. Shilo threw herself on her mother's empty grave and cried at the shock of what they'd both done, and that he'd stormed off so suddenly, without letting her apologize, without trying to say he was sorry, himself. This was the cool stone that had been a relief for her young eyes, a break in the monotony, endless days inside her room, the routine paused for a visit to Mom. Marni never gave comfort to her. Not when Dad talked about her, not when she sat in the mausoleum and tried to feel her presence. The one time she'd felt her as a spirit, as someone who could have possibly been a mother to her, and fed her love, had been with Mag.

Mag's eyes had projected a beautiful woman, singing, her voice rich and full of promises. Shilo could look in the mirror and recognize that, given some years and experience, she could look like her mother once had. Dad used to say—Dad _did_ say—that she, meaning Shilo, looked so much like her, meaning Marni. Like looking at her sister. At which point Shilo would say she was tired and turn against her pillow, close her eyes; she'd feign anything to make him leave.

He'd been her friend, and then an annoyance, and then a terror. He'd never laid a hand on her, but he was a bully all the same. He used his love for her to get her compliance. Take the medicine even though, no, it's not helping yet. Be quiet, don't throw tantrums. Don't ask leave this house; you know it won't happen. Then she _had_ left. In tiptoes, in darting out the door and behind a grave, she'd left him. To catch a bug—that was the premise. That night, she'd declared her independence.

That had proved meaningless. God, it was all meaningless. Everyone would leave her, and she'd be stuck here forever. Her tears fell steadily, like rain.

* * *

Shilo didn't know quite how she'd managed to get up to her room. The last few hours had been a blur. In one hand, a bottle of painkillers. In the other, a bottle of peach-flavored water. She laid on her stomach on the unmade bed, staring dully at the label. Good for headaches, stomach cramps, joint aches. What did they prescribe for a broken heart? Probably a new heart, courtesy of GeneCo. She set the bottles at her feet and curled on her side, hugging her legs in. Fetal position.

Fetuses turn over and over in the womb. Fetuses live off of their host mother like a parasite. Her dad lived because of her, for her, and he sucked her every resource until she was a hollowed carving of a daughter. She wanted it to stop.

"Can I stop it?" she murmured to herself. Marni's eyes were watching her. "Or am I a slave?"

Ring, ring, went her phone. She slapped it on. A recording.

"Hey, kid. I'm still interested if you are. Venus Motel, Thursday night at eight. I'll bring the flowers. Oh, and..." A thoughtful, uncharacteristic quiet. "I'm sorry."

She shut it off. She rolled over and feigned sleep.

* * *

By Thursday, she'd managed to find a part-time job in a library, shelving books. The pay wasn't great, but it was enough to get by. People liked her, smiled at her. There was no lechery among these people, and she was grateful to sit in the tall aisles with a heavy tome and read about the world. She'd watch TV with her dad until he fell asleep- courtesy of a small, harmless something she'd slip into his tea- and then run off for a night of forgetting, of losing herself to a man who was grateful for her, and showed his gratitude at every step.

Before falling asleep, Nathan turned to her and said, "Shilo... There's something I've been meaning to tell you."

Answers? Too late to hear them now. She tried regardless: "Yes, Dad?"

"Meaning to say—It's important, daughter." He reached for her hand. She shyly took it and waited for him to speak. His eyes had closed, the posture relaxed. "Need your help" was the last thing he mumbled before dozing peacefully off.

"Damn," she cursed mildly, letting go of him. She grabbed her shoes and purse, left the house before she changed her mind.

Graverobber was waiting outside the lobby of a place that wasn't half as seedy as she'd imagined. It was no Hilton, that was for damn sure, but she didn't expect the rooms to be full of roaches, or the mattress covered in stains. He swung a key ring around his finger.

"Evening," he said.

"It is," she said.

She took his hand and nearly dragged him up the stairs, a step ahead of him. He stopped her to point out their room with a sardonic grin. Once they were in, she pushed him up against the door and savagely kissed him, transferring all the frustration she'd kept pressed down into her movements. His hands traveled up and down her back, causing delicious shivers to cascade everywhere he touched, rippling freely.

"Shilo, wait," he implored her.

"Why should I?" She shrugged out of her shirt.

"Because I wanted to apologize. It was a reflex. I've been on the streets so long, and I'm unused to someone of your... quality."

She considered him. Contrite. Quite serious. Willing to talk, if she wished. The thought was like a fist tightening over her trachea, threatening to cut off her breath if she spoke, if she dared to release what was inside.

"Don't you want me?" she wheedled, working at undoing his belt.

"Of course, but..."

A kiss silenced him. She took his hand and placed it under her skirt, to feel the contrast of her warmth to his bare fingers, ice cold from the night air. A little shiver broke, and he didn't move, hesitating.

"Please," she said.

He removed his hand. " _You're_ begging _me_?" he said incredulously.

She went to the bed and reclined, spread her legs and hung her head back. Her black-nailed hand glided down her throat, traced her breast, then the incision that was evolving into scar. Fainter and fainter by the day, but she could feel it still, inside. Her voice breaking, she called to him to fill her, complete her, make her cry out the way he loved. "And you do love it," she said breathily. "I know you do. I need you to fuck me, or, or—"

She didn't need to finish the thought. His lips descended, followed by his hands. They hurriedly undressed each other, and he murmured that she was beautiful, which she fed on, then discarded in favor of his wet mouth leaving black rings on her hand over her stomach, then the flat plain of her abdomen, his tongue on the divot in the center. Shilo pushed him roughly on his back, and he grunted as his head hit the wall. They adjusted, quick, quick.

"Need you, need you," she was saying, her fingers inside her body, testing her wetness, testing her pliancy. He fiddled with a rubber.

"I can't think of anything you could be doing right now that'd be more enticing," he told her, his eyes flashing. In answer, she removed the two digits and placed them to his mouth. He licked them clean and continued to suck. Shilo went up, then slid down on top of him, making a harsh sound, tightening around him. She bit her lip and it seemed that she wouldn't continue.

Then she did. Hands tight on his shoulders, she rode him hard, and she lost herself in it. Her eyes were closed. It didn't matter who he was, or why he was beneath her, inside her. She forgot it all. Poof, gone, and when the moment came, she shattered in silence, throwing her head back. She pushed off of him and was loose on the sheet next to him, her mind miles away. He tried to touch her, put his fingers down and then up and rub slow and soft, but it was too new, too sensitive. She brushed him aside.

"No, I'm good. Couldn't you feel it at the end, there?" she asked, watching as he wiped his hand on the sheets.

"Yes, sometimes there's more than one."

"Oh. Not me." It occurred to her to thank him, and she pecked his cheek, a little girl obliging a well meaning present that isn't just what she wanted. "Thank you."

They were in silence a while, each certain the other one was sleeping, waiting for their own minds to drift away. It was more than somewhat awkward.

"Kid, I'd love to take you out sometime. Someplace nice, without corpses, or addicts. Or psychopathic former murderers," he added.

"You mean a date?" she clarified dubiously.

"Yes, that is exactly what I mean. Of course."

"Why?" she asked. "Why on earth do you want to do that?"

"Because... I like you. You are a nice and lovely girl and you seem to be a good person who's trying hard. You're worth stepping outside of a comfort zone." He gave a speech, and she hadn't expected it. He swallowed hard.

"Oh." She closed her eyes, didn't respond. She had no desire to turn this acquaintance into anything more complicated, and her silence was answer enough. After a time, he rose, and she heard a shower running. She turned over on her side and refused to let guilt or anything else permeate the comfortable afterglow.

 


	9. An Interlude

"Daddy!" Shilo griped in annoyance, as she saw what his advice had caused. Her laundry was PINK. Searching for the culprit, she found a dress that had formerly been a blinding, canary red. Damn it! She put it all back in the hamper and resolved to take a bus to the consignment store. She tread down the stairs and searched for her father, found him gazing at the fireplace that wasn't even real. "My laundry came out funny. It's pink."

He chuckled. "You have to separate out the whites. Didn't I tell you?"

"How was I supposed to know?" she said.

"It was a good attempt, sweetie."

Just then, the shrill oven alarm went off; Shilo excused herself, dashed bare-foot to the kitchen, and retrieved their dinner with an oven mitt. The lasagna, at least, had come out perfectly, the cheese melted on top, and it smelled absolutely delicious. Her stomach rumbled, eager to get the party started. "Ooh, yummy," she congratulated herself, and couldn't resist taking a fork to it, filling her mouth with molten, saucy goodness. Music rumbled in from the open window. She put her hands on the sill and leaned forward on her tiptoes, watching a scene play out on the big screen, before the starlit night. GeneCo had found a new musical star to enhance their advertisements and promote their image as a household brand.

Nothing like Mag—no one would ever be like Mag—but the sound was cheaply beautiful, cutting the frequent and obnoxious commercials in twain. A deep voice spilled from the pneumatic woman with lustrous red hair, her open mouth a shade redder and a touch glossier.

Shilo, as a courtesy, asked her dad if she could have a glass of wine. He twitched and said he'd allow it, but just the one glass. A smile shared; they clinked glasses.

"Shilo, this is very good," Nathan said after the first bite.

"You sound surprised," Shilo said.

"Well, I am. Did this come from a box?" he asked, pretending to look around the room for evidence. Shilo giggled, the response she was meant to give to a joke. But it felt genuine. She frowned, confused at how it all felt scripted, and it all felt right.

Tonight was different.

They ate. He asked about her day. He delicately asked how her healing was. She shrugged and said it hurt, more than the twinge they'd promised.

"Perhaps I could take a look at it later?" he said.

"That'd be great. Thanks." _Who are you and what have you done with my dad,_ she wanted to ask. She kept it to herself and let herself be grateful.

Her fork skittered and squealed on the mostly cleared plate. She gathered up the remnants: sauce, cheese, bits of spinach. She licked it off the hot tines, and stopped when made aware that her dad was watching her. She was used to taking dinner in her room and hadn't had to refine her dinner manners overmuch. "Sorry," she offered awkwardly.

"No, it's fine," he said tightly. He looked to be struggling not to smirk.

She held her arm rigidly, slipped, and the fork scraped on the ceramic. "That was an accident!" she protested through the laughter.

Cleared their plates, left them to soak and be sudsy in the sink. She sat up on the counter and removed the screen from the open window. Their air filters would take care of the pollutants, and her cooking overpowered the slight chemical smell.

"That's some vocalist," Nathan commented.

"Yeah. Um." She hesitated, not wanting to spoil the evening. "Dad, Mag told me that, uh, that Mom used to sing. I heard a little." He gazed at her, eyes softening, a pleasant, nostalgic gaze. "It was beautiful."

"Your mother was an artist, Shi. She wrote a song for our wedding day."

Shilo felt her eyes mist over with tears. She bent her head and let her mother's hair sweep forward. "Do you have it?"

"Somewhere. I could get it for you. It's in my bedroom."

"You mean, I could get it for you," she said, not understanding.

"Remember that I wanted to tell you something, honey?"

She nodded. Of course she remembered. "What was it? I'm all ears, Daddy."

"Well…" It started small. His socked feet stretching, then the muscles in his calf, and then he was straightening one leg, then the other, and he placed his feet on the ground, made a pained sound, his hands gripping the armrests, and he managed to stand. Shilo gasped. Terror and awe at once hit her in an overwhelming rush. He collapsed back in the chair, a defeated groan of pain.

"You can—you can walk," she said.

"Yes, that outcome seems possible, doesn't it. But I need your help."

Her forehead creased; she frowned and folded her arms in. "No."

"What?" he said, taken aback.

"Did I fucking stutter?"

"Language," he reminded her gently, in lieu of the slap she could tell he sorely wanted to deliver; some part of him, maybe not the father, maybe the demonic something else, made his right hand twitch and contort and frighten her.

"Why should I help you?"

"Because I am your father, Shilo!" he said. Disbelief. Could not comprehend how or why she was being this obstinate, this unreasonable.

"God, Dad! Do you even know how terrible it is that you're asking, _what_ you're asking of me?" She glared at him, a fire in her eyes. "So, what, I help you regain your strength and you use it against me? Make me your captive?" She took on a mocking, sarcastic tone, one that was meant to be an imitation of his own. He sighed at her ridiculous little mood, the way she acted out. "Oh, Shilo, what nonsense! Shilo, don't defy me! Shilo, don't deny me! You're only a child."

He let her rant, and when she finally stopped, he spoke. "It isn't going to be that way. I promise."

"There's no sense believing you, of all people. The one reason I've felt okay having you here is because you can't come after me," she told him. Nathan's acquiescence did nothing to reassure her; he only did it to placate. To get her to shut up. To get what he ultimately wanted it.

"Shilo… What can I say? What can I do?" he said wearily. He looked vulnerable. Old. Heart-broken. He looked the way she felt on the inside, and he needed her. He actually did. It plucked at the delicate strings attached to her heart.

"After this," she stammered, could not find the words. She got off of the counter. "Answer all my questions?"

"Of course. Daughter, if you helped me with this, we could spend time together. Time I should have spent with you, all those years. The time I spent away from you—"

"I get it; it was a mistake," she cut him off. "What else do I get?"

Hurt by her words, her apparent lack of care, he said, "Whatever you ask of me."

Her mouth trembled. "Will you leave?"

"My house?"

"Dad, it stopped being your house when you stopped paying the bills. Or you can stay here, and I'll leave, but…" A heavy breath. "One of us has to go. Forever. I know it's over-the-top dramatic. I know I should want to stay with you. Like the people on TV, sort of similar to us." But it was not quite the same.

"That's for the best," he reluctantly agreed. "You're… a young woman. Capable, beautiful. Kind. You're more like your mother than you know, Shilo."

She, in turn, felt hurt and shocked that he didn't fight for her. Whatever happened to being his world? "Yeah, it's best," she echoed over his words. They overlapped. "I want to know how I'm like her. You could tell me. Dad, I'm tired. I'm going to go."

Shilo stopped, went back and softly kissed him on the forehead. She fluttered away without seeing the smile she'd placed on his lips.

* * *

At his invitation, she hopped up on the cold examination table—coffee table, he reminded himself. They were not in any office. "Should I put my feet in the stirrups?" she joked; it fell flat.

"Very cute," her doctor told her, and told her to get down and sit in the chair beside him. She did so. Nathan lifted up his daughter's shirt, barely enough to get the ribs visible.

"Dad, don't be so shy," she chided, and held it up for him, higher.

He touched the scar, patted around it, clinically, feeling for the vacancy of a piece removed. "Does this hurt?" he asked.

She shook her head no.

"This?" He felt a little higher, pressed a little harder. She giggled. "Ticklish, Shilo?"

"You know I am. You know everything about me," she said, warm from his touch, emotionally warm because this, here, was a familiarity from childhood. He'd conditioned her to love him most exactly at this point. Asking her questions. Collect symptoms, information. Call and response. Was it his imagination, or was she more than warm? Was she flirting?

He stepped back from the situation. Her shirt was held aloft, baring her torso from waist to the band of her bra. She was very thin, underweight really, and she was not just pale, but sallow. Aside from her belly button, and the cavity created by a sunken ribcage, that fast healing incision was the only break in her perfection. He'd created that, by some happy accident. He'd made an angel, and she alone loved him.

His hand molded to her side like clay. The monster wanted more than a side. And she belonged to him. She'd be grateful, or she should be—and Nathan shook away in utter terror, stopped his hand from creeping up her side by twisting back, then pushing her away.

"Dad? Dad, what's wrong?" She smoothed his hair, peered into his eyes, concerned dark eyes like his dead wife's, sex noises like his dead wife's, and he knew from undressing, dressing her when she swooned that her body had the same coloration, the same lovely twists and curves. He had to get her out of here. Away from the monster inside him.

It was true. She could not trust him.

"Nothing, precious," he said through gritted teeth. "You're fine. I don't know why you're feeling pain—I don't." He rubbed her arm. "Why don't you go up to bed?" His fallback notion when he didn't know what else to do with his daughter.

"Okay." She looked at him strangely, and he was being strange. He held an uncomfortable, false smile until she left him there. He breathed heavily and could not bring himself under control and back to normal.

 


	10. The Rake's Song

Nathan stared at his daughter's bedroom door, his fists clenched, a throbbing in his lower half. There was an insistent urge to open her door, let himself in, and from there let the monster rise. Inside, she would be sleeping—unsuspecting, a prey animal awaiting the inevitable slaughter. It was hard to know, in this state, what he wanted more: her body or her blood. He'd looked in, an hour after her door shut, and found her sleeping. She did not know that he was capable of walking on his own, and would not find out his secret, not yet. He shut his eyes and left.

* * *

The girl was very beautiful, out on the street corner. She wore fishnets and chains, and a tight orange dress. Her long, black hair, spidery tendrils at the ends, reached to her elbows. She could not have been too old, perhaps eighteen, though doubtful. He watched her from his perch on a fire escape, watched her failure to attract a lowlife man or woman in spite of her comely face and acutely youthful form. They went, instead, to the surgically altered creatures, people with sculpted flesh, dyed hair, color-enhanced eyes and skin. He chuckled. Oh, typical depravity, that they would cast aside a precious jewel in favor of cheap rhinestones. He dropped to the ground silently, and she did not see him cross the street to blend in to the crowd. Nathan, armed with only his bag and its contents, approached her. Repo Man, looking out from his eyes, behind the glasses, smiled darkly and offered her his highest regards.

"My dear, don't you look lovely this evening," he charmed her, and the whore's pallid complexion was disturbed by an attractive, innocent blush. She held out her hand for money. He took it and drew her arm up, pressed a kiss to her wrist. He tongued it briefly, enough to feel her tremor, then retreat.

Her hands were behind her back as she began negotiations, rattling prices off a menu of sexual activities. She was reciting a meticulously crafted script; everything down to her mannerisms, the bounced hip, a toss of her long hair, was planned. "I'll take Z, too, up to you if it's after… or before."

"Oh, what I have in mind will take the entire evening," he mused. She nodded once, thoughtful, and surely he'd not imagined how her eyes briefly, curiously, greedily flickered below his waist. She wanted him. She'd be willing—at least, at first, until his demands grew too outlandish.

"Where do you live?" he asked her, thumbing a hand through his pocket for her to hear the clink of coins.

"We can go upstairs," she said, a nod backwards, and he saw what appeared to be a closed-for-the-night massage parlor, half the red neon sign blown out. The graffiti on the building and the surrounding walls reviewed and ranked the girls.

"Alright."

"Let's go have fun," she said, skipping off, leading the way into a dark den.

He smiled grimly after her and turned her words over in his head. It had not intentionally been a poor choice of words. Then again, he could find the menace in anything. It was an art.

How long since he'd snuffed out a life? The girl would do. As she took what he assumed was the night-time formula of Zydrate in the bathroom, he looked in her cubby and, impatiently pushing aside a doll, found her bills. There was GeneCo's stamp, and with the feared red ink declaring that her payments were past due. She fast approached the dread date of repossession. He thanked God for the small justices in life. This would ease his guilt later, when he fondly and bitterly recalled this girl, this Shilo look-a-like.

He went into the bathroom. She gave a short, startled cry and, out of a false sense of modesty, held up a towel to cover her nakedness. Her legs were waxed like a new car. He wanted to weep at the sight of her, young limbs losing their tension as she laughed at herself and reached for a white shirt. It did not go far down her thighs, barely covered the essentials, and it held her tightly.

"Too tight a squeeze to do what we want in here," she pointed out, and correctly. It was tiny. He let her out first, and followed. Hurriedly, he took her shoulders and compelled her to lie upon the bed. She bent to his guidance as a child would. It excited him.

"Let's start with a kiss," he murmured. She closed her eyes and he momentarily buried himself in her lovely, long hair, smelled the perfume of it.

He froze. He hadn't been with a woman since Marni. He'd imagined, oh yes. Fantasized, in long, furtive moments stolen outside his daughter's bedroom door, looking in on her, and felt the occasional twinge of excitement when his victims shrieked and hurt at his hands, his every whim. That was not the same as being with a living, breathing female, and one who could easily be _her_ … His hand trailed heavily down her side, and he kissed her forehead.

"Can you follow my directives?" he asked her, placing a hand behind her head. "Answer yes or no. Don't nod."

"Yes," she said solemnly.

"Good. That's a good girl."

Encouraged, she smiled.

"We're going to do a little roleplay." He felt the mask begin to slip, a hint of mania. "Call me Daddy… You're my little girl."

She warmed to the idea, turning over under him and presenting her bare bottom. "Hit me," she offered, looking over her shoulder at him.

He went on his knees and put a hand on her back. "Not yet," he said, releasing himself and, without warning, pressing into her. He groaned aloud at the sensation. She made to drop her head down. He growled at her not to move, to _look at him_. She winced at each forward push until she went silent and let him work at her, his hands squeezing her hips hard enough to leave deep marks.

"Please, my neck hurts," she whimpered.

"Shut up," he snapped, and pulled out. She collapsed on her stomach, her hands going between her legs to clutch as she writhed in discomfort.

He grabbed her by the hair and forced her head back to look at him.

"I didn't hear a 'Daddy,'" he snarled.

"I'm done playing. Just leave your credits and we'll call it even," she said, attempting to dislodge his grip on her.

"You, my dear, are in no position to bargain. You see, I'm not done with you yet. Move, and I promise you'll be dead in a moment." He nearly giggled at her sudden fright, the luminous whites of her eyes as her dreadful situation became very clear to her. "There, that's a good girl. Shush, Shilo, no need to cry," he crooned, for there were tears going down her cheeks.

He had her bound in no time, and from his bag he drew his hungry scalpel. It sliced through the air.

"No, no, please no!" she begged hysterically, writhing in contradiction to how passively she'd lain as he tied her to the bed. Her thin lips were stretched wide in a terror-struck grimace. She'd been able to keep quiet, as he told her, soft whimpers only, and he knew she could not help those. She did try, poor thing. He shook his head.

"Shh." The edge went to her mouth. She trembled. A tear of sweat was on her neck. He grinned and lowered his head slowly to inhale the salty fear. She was shuddering, and he'd not even cut her yet. "You deserve this, you know." He put the knife to the dip of belly button, and his teeth flashed. She shook her head. "If you'd never disobeyed me..." He pressed, a shadow created as the scalpel teased at an incision. "Say it! Say I'm the world to you! Say you won't leave me!"

An anguished wail escaped as he succeeded and tore up her stomach, pressing deep enough for him to see the riches of organs. He had no interest in them. He intended to tear out her heart. Her screaming would not stop. It began to irritate him.

"Now, that's no way to thank your Daddy!" he berated her furiously. She was gushing blood beneath him; it shot out like feathers from an exploding mallard. "Ungrateful! Little! Brat!" He lost patience and lifted the scalpel from the clean, precise line he'd created to stab and stab as the stuck pig squealed and bucked in a panic, trying to get him off of his prey. "You complain about these pinpricks?" He laughed maniacally, and realized he'd punctured one of her lungs.

The door burst open, light flooding the room.

"What the hell is going on up here? My God—Marie?"

Repo Man growled his displeasure, grabbed his bag, and scurried out the window. Would she live? _Who cares?_ He'd not been able to finish. The energy boiled up, and the monster had seized control. Nathan loved it. Why had he fought all this time when it felt this damn good? This time, when the idea came to go to Shilo, he immediately agreed.

* * *

"You shouldn't be here," she whispered.

"You of all people..." Kiss to her clavicle. "... should know..." Kiss to her breast, drawing out a gasp. "... I go where I want." He took it in his mouth and scraped his teeth up her flesh. "Oh, Shilo, Shilo, Shilo," he murmured, trailing his fingers up her side to cup the other breast.

"I mean it! You're going to get me in trouble with him. Again!"

Graverobber removed himself from the suction he had on her chest to fix her with a dubious stare. "Him? Your dad?"

"Yes," she said. She squeezed her hands. They shook uncontrollably.

"He can't do anything to you, kid. Not ever." He sat her up and busied his hands with rubbing the black off of her breast. "You have to let this paranoia go and move on."

"You don't understand," she said. "The way he looks at me... And I think he spies on me, through my door." She was ashamed to find herself close to tears. "He's strong. True, it's irrational that he could hurt me. He's my dad. He'd never. What if he did? What if he was able to walk again and he came after me?"

"Kid, Shilo, slow down." His hand was on her hyperventilating chest. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't breathe, even when she drew air in with constant gasps. She squeezed his arm and struggled to maintain consciousness. Gradually, Graverobber's touch, along with the unselfish concern there in his vanishing smile, calmed her, and she counted slowly between inhalations. His melody brought her back to a relative calm. "Breathe. Breathe, kid. Breathe."

"What do you care?" Her eyes stung. She ignored the dull pain in her side when she shifted to rest with her head to the wall and glared at him. "You use me for sex. That's all I am to you. What's it matter what happens when you're not around, as long as I spread my legs when you're here with me?"

"Is that what you think?" he asked her angrily.

"It's the truth!"

"Figures," he scoffed, and shoved off the bed. "Shilo Wallace, listen to me good: Nathan Wallace is a twisted soul, and he can do nothing to you. I promise."

"I don't—you can't see it from my point of view," she protested feebly. "I'm scared."

"But there's no reason to be," he consoled her, kneading her shoulder.

"What about us?" she asked fiercely, with brightly gleaming eyes.

"Us? Thought you made that pretty clear. I wanted more. You turned me down. Now I'm here. I came in through your window. You asked me here," he reminded her. "You wanted to see me."

"I wanted to see you," she said softly. "I thought orgasms cured fear. They don't."

"Not even three in a row?" he asked with a smirk.

She shook her head. "No, guess not." She scooted toward the edge of the bed to grab at his scarf and draw him toward her, handful after handful of blue fabric.

"To be accurate, kid, you're the one who's using me." He put a hand over hers to stop the pull. "It hurts, and I've had enough. You want a sex toy, then I'll give you the name of a shop and be on my way."

"What's wrong with that we have?" she asked, anxiously clutching at the sheets.

"Sweetheart, I'm a man with all that it entails. Human emotions, which I've acquired for you. It's not enough to pleasure you when you push me aside. Kid, you see me as what, exactly?" he demanded. "A means to an end?"

"No! I don't know. Please don't go."

"I need more. This isn't enough for me. Sometimes I wonder," he started, and broke off, looking disgusted with himself. He scowled and ripped his scarf from her loose grip. "Do you even want more with me?"

Unable to give the answer he wanted, she looked out the window. She couldn't give him what he wanted. She wasn't capable of it. Things had been changing between them. He sensed her distance when they were intimate, and how could he not? Shilo would not even look at him. Graverobber became kind, more than she could have ever thought of him. He was a drug dealer, for crying out loud, one who defiled corpses on a regular basis, and he acted like he was in love with her. It was all for her benefit. There were wilted funereal flowers on the end table by her bed, and its petals were falling. She watched the progress of the unraveling beautiful thing.

To have more with him would take wanting to see him outside her bedroom. To have more would require energy, and the emotions her father had smothered out of her. Graverobber could move on. Shilo knew that, even if he didn't.

Because, hell, he was one hundred percent right. He didn't give her anything that a dildo couldn't. Except that he tried, harder than anyone else in her life, to make her feel safe and sane and okay. Like a human being, not some delicate sprite floating a step off of the world. His attention was precious, and without a return on the investment on her part, she was going to lose it. Not just the sex, which would be a pity in and of itself. In the space of that silence, Shilo tried to work through seventeen years of repression, and weeks of anxiety, and found that she couldn't do it.

"Forget it. I don't need this bullshit," he sneered, and quickly dressed. Arms through shirt, legs into jeans, dark and dingy coat over it all to sweep the floor. He left through the window. He left her naked and exposed. She wrapped a sheet around her body and ran to the balcony, sorry too late. He wasn't there. Graverobber had left her, and she knew it was for good.

 


	11. The Abduction and Rebuke

His eyes glittered in the dark. She would not see. She would not know. Silently, he fit the key to the lock and opened the door.

Shilo sat cross-legged on the bed in her nightgown, watching cartoons. Her head turned when he entered the room. "Dad?"

Took in the scene with an animal's keenly trained senses; there, his tender child, in a plain white gown only a few shades lighter than her skin, sinned by the scent and sweat of another man, of an intruder, one who left her flowers. The vagabond had been that bold, what audacity! And Shilo, his Shilo, had the nerve to leave them in plain sight where he would see them. Her window, too, was wide open, inviting trouble, inviting sin.

"Dad..." she said again, alarmed.

He had stepped into the light, feigning a slight limp. One hand was empty and curled in a claw. In the other, a cloth dipped in a sweet-smelling solution.

"Oh God, is that blood? Dad, are you hurt?"

He chuckled and shook his head. He wasn't hurt. He had never felt more alive. His purpose filled him, encompassed his movements and guided him onward. Shilo had had her fun, and that was settled. No more would he tolerate her sexual transgressions, not while he lived. She would not leave this house. Shilo would not leave him. She'd gotten her way time and again, and again, and again, and now it was his turn.

For too long had he suffered in silence.

"What did you do?" She was backing up from the foot of the bed, flashing her underwear in the process as she scrabbled. "Whose blood is that?"

He glanced down. Oh. There was blood all over him. Pity. He'd rather liked this shirt. Floral, and he associated it with Marni's last hours, and so kept it at the back of his closet. Now it was stained red.

"Yours," he answered mildly, and, discarding the fabrication of an injury to his leg, moved toward her with an agility that must have stunned her senseless. Not so, it seemed, for she tumbled off the bed and made to move past him. He quickly turned and caught her by the hair, forgetting it was a wig. He chucked it aside with a snarl that was half enraged at his mistake and half delighted at the chase. He picked up a biology book and threw it in her path; blinded by her fear, she stumbled over it and caught herself on hands and knees. It provided him with quite a sight. The impact winded her enough for him to capture her. He dropped to his knees beside her and caught her in a headlock.

She struggled ineffectively, kicking and jabbing with her elbows. He simply maneuvered his weight to counter her weak blows, pinning her to him.

He put the rag perfumed with chloroform to her mouth. Valiantly, she fought to keep from breathing. He applied pressure to her windpipe, threatening to crush it, and her mouth opened to take in a desperate breath as if it were her last. He held the rag over her mouth and held her between his body and the floor, counting down the minutes in his head, noting Shilo's struggle to defeat the inevitable. His captive, her words removed, no ability to curse or spit at him, choked and sputtered and finally succumbed, going limp. Nathan, or what beast now inhabited his body, shook her roughly twice to see if it was a ruse to get him to let down his guard. She did not rouse from the forced slumber. First thing was to restore her hair. How he hated to see her bald; it reminded him of his failures. Her wig went back on, and when he smoothed it carefully into place, the illusion returned naturally, of a world that was both whole and wholesome. Effortlessly, she was his little girl, sleeping in his arms. At a different angle, she was his little, tender wife. He loved both, more than he could say.

Savor this moment, a voice within him sighed lustily. He moved the hair aside and his face fitted perfectly to the smooth nape of her neck, inhaling the strong scent of vanilla. She wore the same sweet perfume as his wife had, in life. Intentional, of course, as he, without truly meaning to, bought Shilo the same brands, the same products that would trigger the sacred, sensual memories of his Marni. Still, it had never been erotic, not when she was a child, not even a year ago. Never before had he appreciated the existence of vanilla lotion more than right now, with his daughter helpless under him, reminding him how alike to Marni she was. Easier to manage, sure, but where it really counted? Midnight black hair, pale skin, a smile to make the sun rise, and vanilla on her body. It covered up the deeper, more erotic smell, like pheromones; he detected the notes of it underneath. It settled in him pleasantly. Shuddering, he sniffed again, and stroked her arm, soft at first, then harder, his hand dragging along her skin as if to strip it from the bone.

But he was getting distracted. There would be quality time for them later. The sooner they were out of this room where she had been corrupted, the better.

Nathan picked her up, held in his arms, and carried her downstairs, stepping lightly so as not to risk waking the poor dear. Poor deer, more like, with her large, dark eyes, outlined with a ring of deepest black, the color of her wig—her _hair_. He moved the ornament on the mantle and opened the fireplace, closed it behind him when he entered the passageway.

She would be content here, he was sure of it. If not, he would do his best to assuage her worries, the troubles he had unwittingly placed on her young shoulders. They would be happy as they hadn't been in so long.

A Repo Man's wheelchair. Not the sort he'd been pretending to need, playing an animal with an injured paw, nothing that kind and comfortable. Blood-stained and lacking much in the way of cushioning, it would do until she came to and could properly react. He let her rest there, and bound her arms and legs in. The bindings would bite her if she struggled, and that was regrettable. Small sacrifices to be made to ensure she would not abandon him. Her eyes remained closed, a passive, impenetrable sleep; a breath removed from the sleep of the dead.

He stood in the shadows and watched her with an unreadable expression.

As an apparition, no longer confined to angry whispers beating in his mind, she came from the shadowy far side of the room, a ghost. The loss of life was apparent on her palette, restricted to shades of grey and black; an artist's rendering of a rotted woman, one who bore no resemblance to the beauty he had preserved to perfection. The peach flesh had the color sucked out of it by death, and her black hair was dried. That's how she came to him, desiccated, mummified, and eyeless, her empty sockets vacant regions of darkness, and her mouth hung open, the skin clinging all the way in to red gums and black teeth. What teeth were left, that is. A rattling emerged, a death rattle, from that mouth. Floating, his wife approached, her dress white but for the red ringing the wound on her pregnant abdomen. It was a wound, he knew full well, that he had been responsible for, in taking his daughter from Marni's womb as her life failed, flickered, faded.

Nathan dared not believe it. He fought the urge to clasp her to him and press kisses on her leathery skin. He held back, sensing that if he touched her, she would prove too fragile for this world and shatter into dust at his feet. Over her shoulder, Shilo continued to sleep, a gentle light at her feet. He could not help but smile. His wife, his child, and while he was sure that he had lost control, and that this was a plane beyond sanity, he was grateful to be here and in this moment when his wife spoke to him from past the grave.

He had never buried her. He wondered, distantly, what had happened to that doll of her body, stolen from his home by some intruder. Rotti, he assumed, and if so, she was gone. What was the use of worrying? He had Shilo.

He had Marni. He said her name.

"Nathan, Nathan," she called. "Monster."

The hollow where her eyes would never be tormented him. He cried out in agony and clutched at his head. He found his jaw was locked tight, the back teeth grinding.

"I needed you here, Marni," he tried to reason with her.

She would hear none of it; thankfully, she had gone silent, no more of her barbs. Her arm extended, palm up, cupped slightly. Nathan relaxed his posture and watched with scientific curiosity.

"Is this how you repay my devotion to you," she asked.

He did not know what she was talking about, at first; then, a curious happening: blue, flickering holograms played on the palm of her hand, and he recognized them as memories. His recent memories: hunting the whore, eyeing his Shilo, stroking himself and groaning as she cried out at another man's touch. His lust and violence and jealousy played out in images that shamed him.

He murmured "Enough" and turned from it.

Satisfied, it seemed, Marni closed her hand, snuffing out the playback of her husband's tormented struggles. She had exposed him, revealed what he had hoped she would never know. She touched his shoulder, and her hand was frail bones wrapped tightly in skin.

"My love," she said softly. Her breath smelled of the graveyard.

"I will do whatever you ask," he told her. "I'll do as you wish, Marni."

He waited for her to speak again. Nothing came, and her touch lightened more and more until it was gone. When he had composed himself, and turned to face the risen corpse, he found that he was alone with Shilo, beginning to stir as she came to.

 


	12. In Captivity

His daughter rose from the sea he'd sent her to, and she did not understand that she was bound. She twitched and attempted to move her hand, perhaps to rub at her eyes, and blinked in bleary confusion that she was unable to do so. "What..." He watched understanding rush in, where she was, that there were straps on her arms, even if he'd been so kind as to leave her head and neck free of restraint. "What's happening?"

Her breathing became very fast, which would elevate her heart rate. She sweated and frantically twisted, slamming her arms up and down as much as they could within the confines, to no avail. He stepped forward, grimly. Marni had left, and here Shilo intended to do the same, as he'd suspected. In the time she'd been sleeping, he'd washed the blood from his hands and changed into a surgical smock, one he wouldn't mind staining. Rather than inspiring comfort, drawing a measly bit of it from the familiar, Shilo panicked more. The leather cuffs would dig and cut if she continued to worry at them, and in her fright and that wish to escape, it was likely she would not notice until blood ran.

He knelt and looked up at her tragic face. "Shilo," he murmured soothingly, touching her hair, her cheek. She flinched and shuddered, could not stop trembling. It did, at least, stop her desperate movements for the time being. "Oh, honey. Don't."

"Ah—please, please let me go," she said. A tear dropped. "Please." A whine, her panic growing, her breaths sucked in strong and then held. "I—" Another gasp. "I love you, Dad."

She said that. Could he believe her? His hand was on her thigh, quite unintentionally, and up to the edge of her nightdress. He could feel the heat from above, and his breath hitched. If she loved him, she wouldn't object. The creature inside did more than urge him on. It guided his hand, closing on her.

Shilo pressed back against the chair, horrified. Not too long ago, she'd have been ignorant to what that meant, what he was doing. She willed him to stop and moved her lips in silent utterances, since begging wouldn't work when he wasn't himself. She could feel sweat prickling on her forehead, and her long nails dug into her palms. "Oh God," she said, sobbed hoarsely.

That was enough to bring Marni back to him. Her disapproval. He brushed it aside. Shilo was beautiful, she looked just like her—What was he saying? What was he _doing_? Now Nathan was horrified, managing to seize control. He fought back. This was his child, and her eyes were closed tight as she prayed wordlessly. He stopped himself. She needed punishing for her previous sins. She needed to be put in her place, to learn what happens when she disobeys her father by sneaking around with strange men. He did not need to add to the damage done to her.

"If you loved me, you would have listened to me," he said with gritted teeth, and pushed the chair back to get her away from him.

"What?" she choked.

"You slept with him," he told her, scoffing slightly. With his foot, he pulled over a table holding a tray of instruments, and examined each of them, ran a finger down the spine of a long tool with a sharp hook at the end. "When I told you not to see him anymore. You deliberately disobeyed me."

Shilo was quiet, watching him regard the instruments with care.

"Please let me go!" she burst out.

He sighed and his shoulders stiffened in resolve. "No, Shi."

It was going to be an ordeal for them both. He went to his supplies and weighed out an anesthetic. Nathan could feel Shilo watching him, and it gave him no pleasure that he had to drug her once more. This would be the final time.

* * *

Graverobber welcomed his children of the streets, the neon-bedecked young misses and misters that sprawled and crawled his way, begging for the cure. His cure. Zydrate: it comes from the dead, and the dead are everywhere. He grinned and began the dispensation.

"Step up, children!" he crowed.

One girl, a little whore in big combat boots, elbowed her way through with shrill complaints. "Graverobber, please! I got money."

"For once," he laughed at her. Nothing looked new about her, he judged after a cursory glance or three, save for the bright red hair. He grabbed her by the arm and lifted her through the crowd. They parted like the Red Sea for their master of ceremonies. "No surgeries, hm? Why are you here?" he asked her, not that he cared.

"It was dreadful!" she yelped. "Repo Man's back on the streets. Warn everyone, you hear?"

"What? That's ridiculous. The Largos haven't put out any rookies," he said. He would know, having kept in contact with the new and, several times daily, improved CEO.

"The Repo Man, Graverobber! I told a friend, said what he looked like, and that's how he looks under the mask! I didn't know, I didn't! He came after me, tried to collect." She squeezed his arm, her eyes bugging out. "Almost died. My sister found me." Sister. Euphemism for lover. The cogs in his brain whirred to life. Couldn't have been. She had to be mistaken.

"He cut me open. We stitched me back up, but it hurts so bad," she pleaded.

He numbed the pain, gave an excuse, and ran off on the rest of them. Graverobber went to the library where Shilo worked, where they'd necked in the aisles, where he'd sat her down, facing him, and whispered clever anecdotes as his fingers played surreptitiously under her dress. That library hadn't held nearly as many memories before she stumbled into his life. He tapped a few sexy, glasses-wearing librarians, asked if they'd seen that Wallace girl around.

They said they hadn't seen her all week, and it was very unusual. She was a punctual young woman, and so sweet.

He made a mental note to look around her house. Could be she'd come down with the stomach bug. Or he'd made the worst misjudgment of his life by not listening to her.

* * *

DJ Granny lowered her opera glasses after watching Graverobber dash toward the Wallace mansion. She spoke to Branko Branko, hefting a large gun. "Looks like we're in for some excitement, and a good deal of blood," she commented, blasé. He nodded. She turned back to watch, lifting the glasses. "Yep, a good ol'-fashioned bloodbath."

"Should we interfere, ma'am?" he asked in his heavily accented English.

She shook her head. "Nah. Better entertainment this way."

* * *

Days ago. Some time after inserting a needle into her arm, he came back with a contraption, a metal board with circles where her feet loosely went.

She was blurred, and her words slurred when she asked what he was doing.

"Don't worry. I gave you an anesthetic. You won't feel a thing."

Another board went to her knees, and between were metallic straps, like braces, that connected between the boards, went tight around her legs. Using a screw on the side of each, he tightened them, and tightened, until she felt snaps and pops inside her legs. The metal was smooth and did not cut into her, but the pressure was so great that her bones ached in spite of his assurances of numbness. "My legs," she gasped.

"You see, I've found the solution to you wanting to leave me. Can't run away with broken legs, now, can you, Shi?" he said. What was frightening was how reasonable he seemed to find this, and all she could do was watch as he mangled her and slowly crushed the bones. By the time he was through with her, they bent the wrong way at the knees and ankles. She felt that the pain was muffled. "There. That's good, honey." He took her hand and rubbed the back of it with his thumb. Recalling how he'd touched her before, it took great effort not to flinch back from it.

She felt an immense calm. It couldn't get worse from here. She could relax. They were in this together, and he was as trapped as she. Acceptance was all she could strive for. No one would save her, and unless and until her father, her _captor_ showed unexpected mercy, she would not be freed. She distanced herself from the physical feeling of his hand touching her, measuring her pulse. Shilo went inward, although it was hard to think through the haze of what tranquilizing drug coursed in her veins. What could be gained? What good could possibly come from this captivity? Would she spend her last days weeping and begging like a wounded animal, or could she hold her head high and, since she could not save her body, at least retain her sanity... her humanity?

"Tell me about Mag," she said.

He seemed surprised by the inquiry. He was torturing her, and she talked quietly, showing no more hysteria. It made him serene, and the violence of crushing her thin legs had temporarily sated the beast within. He pulled up a chair and, elbow on his knee, weighed his words carefully. A lifetime to share, years of memories that she did not have. She'd earned it by bearing the pain, his brave little girl, and if she was going to hear it, it would have to be now, before he lost control again.

Nathan began. "Your mother and Mag met in college. They were very close, and when your mother became pregnant, there could be only one choice for godmother..."

Shilo finally had her answers. She sighed into the chair, eased into the bonds that, by now, were starting to crust with her blood.

As the week wore on, he fed her, gave her a wet cloth to bathe herself, shut her in the bathroom for three minute intervals to pee or change her clothes. Shilo never for a moment thought she was completely alone. That would have been foolish. She jumped at shadows. After a time, he undid the straps on her arms. The ones on her legs had been redundant for days, and she felt pain at every break and fracture, and there were many. He gave her no more medicine in spite of her requests for something to take the edge off. When he tired of watching her, he talked to her, and she learned of her history. What the world had been, how her mom and dad fell in love.

Shilo existed, that was all.

Today. Today felt markedly different. They went off script after breakfast. He lifted her from the chair, and she was embarrassed to find herself clinging around his neck as her legs dragged uselessly on the ground. He put her on a green table, upright, with restraints, supports that could be adjusted for height and size. Her dad explained that he used it to fetch internal organs from indebted delinquents.

He looked at her. There were cuts on her arms and legs from the chair, and bruises all over. A hungry glint shone in his eyes. It frightened her anew.

"Dad," she said.

"Shh." A finger went to her lips. He reached for a tool with what looked like a tiny circular saw at the end. He turned it on, and the circle with its many serrations spun, impossible to number the rotations. He unbuttoned her blouse enough to show pale skin without betraying her modesty. "You're ready for your punishment, daughter."

He touched it to her skin, and without the mercy of anesthetic, she became a raw and screaming thing, begging for him to stop. The pain became too great. She lost herself, blacked out.

 


	13. The Drowned

When Shilo came to, her dad was cleaning his instruments of torture, all painted with her blood. "Oh," she moaned.

"Welcome back, precious." He petted her hair and kissed her cheek, an unwanted touch. The pain filtered in slowly. There were many cuts, deep, and one in the dip at the bottom of her throat that made speech uncomfortable. "I'll be back with dinner."

She blinked to acknowledge what he said. A facial twitch could have passed for one of his pained smiles. Her eyes examined the damage. It had been hours since he'd started, making a patchwork quilt of her. Each breath, she feared, would cause her to loosen the new scabs and push out more red, red in rivulets, red in hot rivers and sprays. It had dried on her, as had the tears on her face and the snot in her nose.

So she'd cried. It wasn't weakness. Being cut just _really_ fucking hurt. She closed her eyes and wished to go to sleep again, to be nothing until her father came back to do more harm.

A shadow emerged, tall and broad. Back so soon? She struggled to focus.

"Kid? Oh, shit!" Graverobber, once he'd recovered from the shock, ran to her. "You're... Oh, Shilo. Shilo, Shilo."

"You came back for me," she murmured in disbelief.

"You were right about him, kid. He's a goddamn—monster!"

"I made a mistake," she interrupted, and, speaking too loud, loosened a clotted surface on her neck and felt the blood rush through. It weakened her, the loss. She pushed through the horror, the fatigue of struggling to survive for days, to tell him what seemed most important: "I was wrong about you. About us."

"We'll talk later. I've gotta get you out of here." He worked on unfastening the straps. "What did he do to your legs?" he said mostly to himself, a disgusted curse. One of her hands was free now. She touched his hair, saw the blackened gunk on her knuckles and under the chipped nails. She smiled at him. Here, as he released her from bondage, she felt all the warm, soft feelings she hadn't been able to feel before. In the afterglow of sex, she'd felt nothing. She'd felt numb.

"My hero," she said. He paused in his frantic effort to destroy this image of her that disturbed him. It would haunt them both, she was sure, as if they didn't have enough problems. Shilo touched his mouth, and he kissed the fingertips. They had been lovers, but the kiss was chaste, the first truly chaste, wholesome touch she'd had all week. She felt safe, and amazingly gratified at how simply he'd given this to her.

A shout destroyed the beauty of their moment, and a hand closed around Graverobber's throat, roughly wrenching him away from Shilo.

"While the cat's away, eh?" Nathan snarled, his eyes wild. Graverobber swung his arms for balance and collided into a counter; on the way down, he upset a tray with glass bottles. They shattered. He got to his feet, and by then, Repo Man had a dagger in each hand. One thrown pinned the criminal to the wall by one arm. A second dealt with the other, close enough between fabric and skin to flay the surface. Graverobber shouted in pain.

"Oh, I am going to enjoy gutting you," Repo laughed, dancing over to him. "I looked you up, you miscreant, you pervert! Seems you don't own your heart." He cackled, finding this a delicious tidbit to share with his new victim. "Oh, but I haven't time for this. Can't you see I'm busy?"

With aplomb, he removed one point from the wall and planted the knife in the man's stomach, sunk it in good. "Do shut up! That's not even your heart." He removed the other point, allowing Graverobber to slouch down, panting. Repo Man held the knife in hand and looked down with a toothsome grin, wondering what other havoc to wreak on the fellow at his feet.

He heard the minutest shuffle behind him and spun, his arm flying out to strike with the knife. Shilo screamed and dropped to her knees.

"Oh, God, Shilo, I'm sorry!" Nathan apologized much, much too late. Her hands were cupped over her cheek, and she rocked back and forth, shrieking. She'd not been anesthetized in the slightest. He stooped to examine her. "Move your hands, honey, let me see." A part of him was eager to see how deeply he'd cut, if blood was gushing, if it would scar.

Graverobber barreled into him. The boy, while strong and nimble, was no match for Nathan's experience. They tussled briefly, and Nathan let him think he could win, to boost his spirits before the inevitable. Shilo, he presumed, had passed out from the pain and shock, as her shrieks had muted. When he tired of this foolish game, he grabbed Graverobber by the leash of a scarf he wore, punched him, knocked him back. Nathan stood, flicked his scalpel into his hand, and went to him, put a boot on his neck.

Coldly, he bent and stabbed him a long, deep gash. He'd bleed out in no time, and GeneCo would get their property back if the body collectors were quick enough. Repo Man had dealt with the intruder, and the last thing standing in his way of being with Shilo. He straightened up and flicked blood off his hands. Why did faces have to bleed so much in a fight?

He did not expect the force that came in the shape of a cherubic statue smacking him. He blinked in the harsh, surgical light as Shilo, leaning heavily on a crutch, stood over him. With the light behind her, even if her white face and clothes were covered up with red, she seemed to be an angel, taking him from the world.

"Stay dead this time, Dad," she hissed, and stuck a knife into his chest.

Nathan died in minutes. He went, as he had at the opera, without apology, saying he had done everything out of love. It had been misguided, and twisted by his delusions, but Shilo could see that he had come from a place of goodness.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

"I love you," she said, although the words rang hollow. This time, the blood that sat stickily on her skin was her own, and in those dreamy final moments, he traced her cuts with one hand. "I'll always love you, Dad."

"Even after all this?" he asked, which was as close as he got to acknowledging the horrors he'd inflicted on her. What nightmare had occurred here. She wondered how he made it okay in his head. "You still say that?"

"Yes." As he slipped away, she said "Say hi to mom for me."

She crawled to Graverobber on her belly, her legs behind her at strange angles. He'd watched without comment, the entire goodbye.

"Well, guess it's my turn," he chuckled grimly.

"No, don't be stupid. We'll call someone. It'll be okay." It was difficult, but she managed to sit up and get his head in her lap. She did not stroke his face, or kiss the split and bloody lips. Instead, she held his hand and did not break the contact.

"Shilo, you can't walk. You can't get help in time. Even if you could..." He sighed; painful to admit his own mortality. "I'm a goner."

"I'm sorry." She broke down and began weeping. "This is all my fault."

He quieted her by taking her by the middle and guiding her down to lie against his chest. They both winced in adjustment to the discomfort of cuts rubbing, bruises smashing. She snuffled and wiped her eyes and nose on his shirt.

"Happy to do it, to die to save you. You're worth it." He groaned. "Hope you know that, Shilo."

He was dying. She felt that she was, too, and held on to him like he was a life preserver in the open sea. "Wait, don't leave me! I love you," she blubbered, and she was showering kisses on him, on his forehead and cheeks and lips. With his last burst of energy, he took her face gently in his big hands and brought her in to a kiss with clinging lips, a lingering taste to savor.

"I can't help it." He breathed out. "Sorry I couldn't come sooner. Maybe we could have... oh, whatever. Goodnight, kid."

His body went cold. The sharp intelligence left his eyes immediately, and she closed them, to give him dignity. It was silly, she knew. Bled to death on the ground, his face a mess; what did it matter if he was blankly staring at the ceiling? She lay on the floor for a time, wracked with pain.

Her legs were terrible colors, and infection had set into the cuts, even after all the care her father had put into keeping her healthy and "safe." She'd never walk again, and there was a gash on her cheek that would leave a sizable scar. It was likely she would bleed to death, and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.

Shilo looked up at the light.

"I did try," she said aloud, though she was alone. "I tried."

_Fight through it._

_"_ I can't..."

_You've got to._

The ghosts of all who'd died for her would want her to fight, not lie down and give up. Mom, Mag, even Rotti, in his own way. And Graverobber. She reached for the crutch and struggled to her feet, gave beyond her reserves, pushed to the point that was an indeterminable distance past total exhaustion, and reached outside the house, into the street, where the sun was out. She'd live. Oh, God, she would live. She cried and sprawled on the ground.

Someone on the street gave a shout and ran toward the little girl covered in blood.

 


End file.
